THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS 


TRAVELLING    NOTES    IN    EUROPE 


BY 


THEODORE   CHILD 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 

1889 


D 


a  1  n 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Down  the  Danube  to  Constantinople    .      i 

Constantinople 24 

Impressions  of  Holland '  •    71 

A  Trip  to  Naples no 

Art  Notes  in  Milan 138 

Verona ^55 

Venice 168 

Bologna  and  Ravenna i74 

Florence ^So 

Frankfort 1S6 

Cassel 195 

Brunswick i99 

Munich 203 

Limoges 219 

Reims 231 

Aix-les-Bains 244 

A  Visit  to  the  Grande  Chartreuse    .    .  255 
A  Holiday  on  French  Rivers 273 


With  a  few  exceptions  the  sketches  and  notes 
composing  this  volume  appeared  originally  in  va- 
rious American  and  English  periodical  publica- 
tions, The  Atlantic  Monthly,  The  Cornhill  Magazine, 
The  Gentleman's  Magazitie,  Lippincotfs  Magazine, 
etc.  These  various  essays  have  no  continuity  nor 
any  connection  of  subject ;  they  are  simply  souve- 
nirs of  summer  holidays  which  the  author  has  ven- 
tured to  reprint  in  the  hope  that  they  may  find  favor 
in  the  eyes  of  the  travelling  public,  and  also  of  the 
public  that  is  content  to  travel  in  an  arm-chair  by 
the  fireside. 


SUMMER  HOLIDAYS. 


DOWN  THE   DANUBE    TO    CONSTAN- 
TINOPLE. 

I. 

At  Buda-Pesth,  having  for  the  moment  had 
enough  of  swift  travelling,  I  abandoned  the  dusty 
Orient  Express,  and,  after  resting  a  few  days  in 
the  delightful  Hungarian  capital,  I  proceeded  on 
my  way  to  Constantinople  on  board  one  of  the 
Danube  steamers,  the  Ferdinand  Max.  It  was  in 
the  month  of  August  of  i886,  the  weather  was 
brilliant,  the  moon  was  full,  and  so  we  started  one 
Saturday  at  midnight,  and  steamed  along  all  night, 
stopping  from  time  to  time  at  villages  on  either 
bank  of  the  river  to  take  in  fresh  passengers. 
The  next  morning  I  was  on  deck  betimes  to  in- 
spect the  landscape,  and  the  boat,  and  the  passen- 
gers. We  were  in  the  midst  of  a  very  broad 
stream  of  dirty  yellow  water,  flowing  with  a  swift 
rippling  movement  between  banks  of  brown,  clayey 


2  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS, 

earth,  eaten  away  by  the  wash  and  crumbling  vis- 
ibly into  the  river.    On  either  side,  here  and  there, 
were  piles  of  wood  cut  and  stacked  symmetrically, 
and  thickets  of  willows,  and,  beyond,  forests  of 
pale  green  poplars  stretching  away  and  away  over 
the  endless  plains  and  beneath  the  cold,  pale  blue 
sky,  sprinkled  with  white,  flakey  clouds.   After  con- 
tinuing for  some  time  between  these  sad,  green,  and 
silent  expanses  of  willow  forests,  we  came  at  length 
to  a  low  sandy  island,  and  then  to  a  group  of  float- 
ing water  mills,  anchored  diagonally  across  the 
stream,  so  that  each  wheel  might  receive  the  full 
and  unimpaired  impulse  of  the  current.    The  float- 
ing mill  is  composed  of  two  flat  boats,  or  pontoons, 
on  the  larger  of  which  is  the  mill  and  the  house 
where  the  miller  and  his  wife  and  children  live, 
while  the  smaller  one  serves  simply  to  support  one 
end  of  the  shaft  on  which  the  water-wheel  is  sus- 
pended.    All  down  the  Danube  the  presence  of  a 
group  of  these  mills  is  a  sign  that  you  are  near  a 
village.     First  of  all  you  see  ten  to  twenty  float- 
ing mills  dotting  the  stream,  then  you  see  a  break 
in  the  willows,  a  muddy  shore  covered  with  lit- 
ter and  pigs,  two  or  three  broken-down  victorias 
drawn  by  lean  horses,  a  landing-stage,  a  dirty  and 
picturesque  crowd,  and  then  you  may  know  that 
you  have  arrived  at  a  station.     The  first  station 
we  touch  at  this  morning  is  Baja.     An  old  Turk 
comes  on  board  with  various  bundles  of  nonde- 
script baggage. 


DOWN  THE   DANUBE.  3 

The  landscape  continues  unchanged  until  we 
near  the  next  station,  Szekcso,  a  village  which 
climbs  up  the  side  of  a  yellow  hill  running  steep- 
ly down  to  the  water's  edge.  This  village  is  a 
harmony  in  yellow  and  white :  the  hillside  is  yel- 
low, the  cottages  are  yellow  and  white,  each  with 
a  loggia  in  front  and  a  thatched  roof.  There  are 
two  churches  with  quaint  rococo  bulging  spires, 
one  painted  bright  red  and  the  other  flaring  blue. 
The  bank  of  the  river  in  front  of  the  villasfe — the 
marina  as  we  may  call  it — is  a  typical  confusion 
of  mud,  straw,  and  miscellaneous  litter,  on  which 
you  see  flocks  of  geese  and  ducks,  herds  of  black 
swine,  ox-carts,  oxen,  washerwomen,  and  idle  peas- 
ant boys,  dressed  in  white  short  skirts  and  sleeve- 
less jackets,  like  true  Magyars  that  they  are. 

Leaving  Szekcso  we  find  ourselves  once  more 
between  banks  of  mud  eaten  away  by  the  wash, 
and  between  monotonous  forests  of  willows.  In 
the  brilliant  sunshine  the  smoke  from  our  boilers 
casts  a  deep  brown  shadow  on  the  dirty  yellow 
water,  and  so  we  glide  along — through  plain,  sand 
slopes,  and  willow  forests,  and  low  hills  dotted 
here  and  there  with  villages  and  vineyards,  the 
churches  standing  out  in  vivid  white  silhouette,  and 
the  river  winding  and  ever  winding  beneath  the 
immense  expanse  of  sky.  The  flatness  of  the  sur- 
rounding country,  the  vastness  of  the  river — whose 
banks  rise  scarcely  a  foot  above  the  level  of  the 
yellow  water — the  paleness  of  the  green  wilder- 


4  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

nesses  of  willow-trees  which  stretch  away  on  either 
side  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  rareness  of 
villages,  the  absence  of  signs  of  life  or  of  indus- 
try, the  absence  even  of  birds,  all  tend  to  make 
this  part  of  the  Danube  very  monotonous.  The 
aspect  of  nature  is  novel,  certainly,  but  when  these 
same  dominating  tones  of  pale  green  and  dirty  yel- 
low continue  to  prevail  day  after  day  one  grows 
a  little  tired  of  them.  The  ardor  of  sight-seeing 
diminishes,  and  one  begins  to  look  around  one 
for  distraction. 

The  Ferdinaftd  Max  is  a  good  river  boat,  with 
six  private  deck  cabins  over  the  paddle-boxes. 
The  saloons  and  general  accommodation  are  fairly 
convenient,  the  cooking  is  passable,  the  officers 
polite  and  amiable.  The  passengers  on  the  first- 
class  deck  are  all  Hungarians  or  Austrians.  The 
ubiquitous  Englishman  is  represented  by  the 
writer  of  these  lines  alone.  On  the  second  and 
third  class  decks  the  passengers  become  more 
mixed  at  each  landing-place — there  are  Turks  in 
turbans,  Magyars  in  white  petticoats,  and  shep- 
herds clad  in  sheepskins  who  wear  artificial  flow- 
ers in  their  hats. 

After  dinner  I  had  a  long  talk  with  a  Magyar, 
who,  being  a  professor  at  the  University  of  Buda, 
was  able  to  tell  me  much  that  was  interesting 
about  Hungarian  history  and  heroism.  With  the 
aid  of  innumerable  cigarettes  he  rearranged  the 
map  of  Europe  to  our  mutual  satisfaction.     His 


DOWN    THE    DANUBE.  5 

plan  was  based  on  an  alliance  of  England,  Ger- 
many, and  Austria   against  Russia.     The  allies 
were  to  take  Russian  Poland,  divide  its  territory 
between  the  two  German  powers,  drive  Russia 
once  for  all  out  of  Europe,  and  leave  her  to  devel- 
op purely  as  an  Asiatic  power.     This  excellent 
patriot  ended  by  pressing  me  to  induce  some  of 
my  countrymen  to  establish  themselves  in  Hun- 
gary.    "  We  have  no  industries,"  he  said  ;  "  our 
people  are  all  agriculturists,  and,  consequently,  we 
have  to  import  all  our  manufactured  goods ;  we 
do  not  even  make  needles  and  thread  in  Hungary. 
There  are  great  openings  in  all  minor  industries, 
but  what  we  need  especially  are  roads  and  bridges. 
Remember  that  there  is  only  one  single  bridge 
over  the  Danube  all  the  way  between  Pesth  and 
Petrawardein.      Our   government   even   offers  a 
premium  to  native  production  ;  anybody,  of  what- 
ever nationality,  who  establishes  a  manufactory 
in  Hungary  enjoys  exemption  from  all  taxation 
for  a  space  of  twenty  years.    There  is  a  great  fut- 
ure for  our  country  ;  in  fertility  it  is  a  perfect  gar- 
den, but,  as  you  see,  it  is  not  half  populated ;  these 
forests  along  the  Danube  swarm  with  wild  boars 
and  wolves." 

By  this  time  other  Hungarians  and  some  Ser- 
vians of  the  upper  classes,  who  had  been  educated 
at  Paris  and  spoke  French,  joined  our  gossiping 
party,  and  as  the  Hungarians  are  vivacious  and 
cultivated  people,  very  advanced  in  the  amenities 


6  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

of  life,  we  had  a  pleasant  time  and  discoursed  of 
many  things. 

After  passing  Vucovar  the  scenery  became  less 
monotonous,  and  soon  we  entered  a  smiling,  hilly 
country,  fertile  and  beautiful  as  a  vast  park.  Here 
and  there,  along  the  banks,  we  see  open  huts  of 
simple  thatch,  supported  on  rough  timber  poles. 
During  the  summer  the  peasants  and  their  fami- 
lies live  in  these  huts,  under  arms,  and  watch  to 
protect  their  crops  from  the  thieves.  The  regu- 
lar villages,  it  appears,  are  just  over  the  hills  on 
the  opposite  slope,  "  Are  those  Servians  ?"  I 
asked  my  professor  friend,  pointing  to  some  brown- 
skinned,  long -booted,  second-class  passengers, 
who  were  smoking  long  pipes  and  playing  cards. 
"  Servians  ?  No ;  the  Servians  wear  shoes.  Long 
boots  are  for  Magyars."  I  laid  the  information 
to  heart.  How  could  I  have  asked  such  a  ques- 
tion ?  Of  course,  the  long  boot  is  the  appanage, 
the  glory,  the  distinctive  sign  of  the  Magyar ! 

Towards  sunset  on  Sunday  afternoon  we  came 
in  sight  of  the  famous  fortress  of  Petrawardein,  a 
huge,  brown,  fortified  rock,  with  barracks  on  the 
top,  and  opposite  is  the  town  of  Neusatz,  the  first 
important  town  since  Pesth,  Here  the  Danube 
is  crossed  by  a  railway  bridge  and  a  bridge  of 
boats.  There  is  much  animation  and  shouting, 
and  we  take  on  board  many  passengers  in  ex- 
change for  those  whom  we  land.  The  view  is 
certainly  fine,  and  Petrawardein  doubtless  evokes 


DOWN   THE   DANUBE.  7 

many  souvenirs  in  the  minds  of  those  who  are 
well-read  in  history.  For  my  part,  being  ignorant, 
I  felt  vaguely  impressed  by  the  prestige  of  the 
name  and  by  the  sight  of  the  casemates  and  can- 
non which,  from  the  heights  of  this  towering  rock, 
command  the  river  and  the  surrounding  country 
in  all  directions.  But,  after  all,  I  was  still  more 
impressed  with  the  aspect  of  the  sky  when  the 
sun  had  sunk  below  the  horizon,  and  left  it  all 
rent  and  torn  into  sheets,  and  crags,  and  wedges 
of  red,  golden,  and  pale  green  light.  And  the 
broad  Danube  resembled  an  immense  lake,  whose 
surface,  quivering  with  minute,  regular  ripples, 
seemed  as  it  were  to  have  a  fine  grain,  and  sug- 
gested the  comparison  of  an  immense  skin  of  sil- 
ver-colored morocco  leather. 

The  next  morning  we  arrived  early  at  Belgrade, 
having  cast  anchor  during  the  night  at  an  inter- 
mediate station,  the  moon  not  deigning  to  shine 
sufficiently  to  permit  nocturnal  navigation.  The 
name  of  Belgrade  is  written  in  strange  semi-Greek, 
semi-Russian  characters.  We  are  now  beyond 
the  confines  of  Hungary,  at  least  on  one  side  of 
the  river,  which  is  Servia.  At  Belgrade  we  hear 
that  Prince  Alexander  of  Bulgaria  has  been  driven 
out  of  his  dominions  ;  and,  thereupon,  we  all  pro- 
ceed to  rearrange  the  map  of  Europe  once  more 
and  to  indulge  in  the  wildest  conjectures,  which 
scarcely  allow  us  to  remark  the  scenery  of  hills 
and  vineyards,  varied  with  willow  forests,  which 


8  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

accompanies  us  through  Kubin  and  Pancsova  as 
far  as  Drenkova.  Since  Belgrade  I  notice  the  first- 
class  passengers  have  become  more  mixed  and 
noisy.  There  is  a  group  of  Servians  who  are 
drinking  and  talking  politics  with  fury,  shouting 
and  stamping  like  maniacs.  Another  Servian,  re- 
clining full  length  in  the  saloon,  where  the  table 
is  laid  from  morning  until  night,  and  where  some- 
body is  always  eating  or  drinking,  calls  ferociously 
for  a  cigar.  The  waiter  brings  a  "  Virginianer," 
and,  pulling  the  stra'v  out  half-way,  he  presents  it 
thus  to  the  young  pasha,  who  takes  it  lazily,  and 
lights  it  without  a  Avord  of  thanks  to  the  slave. 
An  hour  after  noon  on  Monday  we  arrived  at 
Drenkova,  where  we  left  the  Ferdinand  Max  and 
went  on  board  a  small  steamer,  the  river  being 
too  shallow  and  the  navigation  too  difficult  for 
the  large  boats.  Here  the  fine  scenery  of  the 
Danube  really  begins,  and  if  I  were  to  make  this 
journey  again  simply  for  the  Danubian  scenery, 
instead  of  taking  the  boat  at  Buda-Pesth  I  should 
continue  through  Hungary  by  train  to  Bazias,  and 
proceed  thence  by  boat  only  as  far  as  Turn-Sev- 
erin,  or  Lom  Palanca,  where  one  finds  raihvay 
communication.  It  must  be  remembered,  how- 
ever, that  travelling  in  Eastern  Europe  is  by  no 
means  luxurious  or  rapid,  and  that,  after  all,  the 
slow  Danube  boat,  and  the  often  monotonous 
Danubian  landscape,  are  far  preferable  to  the  fare 
one  meets   with  when  misfortune   or  defective 


DOWN   THE    DANUBE.  9 

couplings  strand  one  in  a  verminous  Bulgarian 
village. 

After  leaving  Drenkova  the  Danube  enters  the 
mountains,  and  winds  along,  forming,  as  it  were,  a 
series  of  vast  hill-bound  lakes.  On  either  side 
the  thickly  wooded  hills  slope  down  to  the  water's 
edge,  and  we  steam  on  and  on,  but  there  is  no 
exit  visible.  On  the  contrary,  the  hills  are  clos- 
ing in  upon  us  and  becoming  precipitous.  We 
shall  certainly  strike  against  the  frowning  rocks. 
No ;  the  steamer  makes  a  rapid  turn,  passes 
through  a  narrow  gorge,  and  we  enter  another 
vast  lake  surrounded  by  hills,  which  in  their  turn 
fade  away  into  a  deep  blue  indigo  mist  as  we  ad- 
vance through  the  rocky,  wooded  solitude,  enliv- 
ened only  rarely  by  two  or  three  fishermen  plying 
their  nets  from  primitive  boats.  After  traversing  a 
series  of  these  seeming  mountain  lakes,  we  pass  the 
Trajan's  Tafel — an  inscription  on  the  rock  about 
which  the  guide-books  are  eloquent,  and  which 
marks  the  site  of  a  vanished  Roman  bridge — and 
here  we  are  at  the  famous  "Iron  Gates,"  most 
overrated  of  curiosities.  In  this  part  of  the  Dan- 
ube there  are  rapids  and  a  quantity  of  small  and 
sunken  rocks  scattered  across  the  stream,  which 
cause  the  water  to  eddy  and  bubble,  and  thus  en- 
able the  impressionable  to  figure  to  themselves 
the  "  Iron  Gates  "  as  a  terrible  rock-bound  boil- 
ing gorge.  The  "  Iron  Gates  "  are  a  delusion  and 
a  snare.     I  am  glad  the  sight  of  them  did  not 


10  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

figure  even  as  an  item  on  my  Danube  programme. 
Indeed,  they  left  me  quite  as  indifferent  as  they 
did  that  turbaned  old  Turk  who  came  on  board 
at  Baja,  and  who,  while  we  were  passing  the  "  Iron 
Gates  "  and  straining  our  eyes  to  gaze  at  nothing, 
was  gravely  performing  his  ablutions  at  the  ship's 
pump  according  to  the  Moslem  ritual — washing 
his  hands,  arms,  face,  the  top  of  his  head,  the 
parts  behind  his  ears,  and  his  big  toes,  but  the 
latter  only  figuratively  by  smearing  his  wet  fingers 
over  his  inner  shoes.  After  this  lustral  ceremony 
he  wiped  himself  on  a  large  cotton  handkerchief 
adorned  with  light  green  and  white  chrysanthe- 
mums on  a  cafe-au-lait  ground,  and,  having  ad- 
justed his  turban,  he  spread  out  his  carpet  and 
prayed — for  he  was  a  pious  Turk,  and  five  times 
a  day  he  observed  carefully  the  hours  reserved 
for  prayer,  and  sought  "the  favor  of  God  and  his 
satisfaction,"  as  the  Prophet  bade  him. 

At  Kalobo  the  fine  scenery,  the  mountains,  and 
the  lakes  came  to  an  end,  and  the  Danube  con- 
tinued to  flow  broadly  between  low  hills  and  vast 
plains.  Before  sunset  we  reached  Turn-Severin, 
where  we  remained  all  night,  having  once  more 
changed  boats,  and  having  abandoned  the  little 
steamer  for  a  roomy  river  boat  called  the  Orient, 
bound  for  all  the  Danubian  ports  as  far  as  Galatz 
on  the  Black  Sea.  At  5  a.  m.  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing the  Orient  cast  loose  her  moorings,  and  we 
steamed  along  through  soft,  velvety  landscape  be- 


DOWN  THE   DANUBE.  II 

tween  low,  crumbling  banks  of  brownish  earth. 
The  water  was  still  dirty  yellow  in  color  and  heavi- 
ly charged  with  earthly  matter.  The  "  blue  Dan- 
ube "  is  evidently  a  myth.  I  observe  that  the  in- 
scriptions and  notices  on  our  boat  are  written  in 
four  languages  —  Servian,  Roumanian,  Turkish, 
and  French.  The  names  of  the  landing-places 
become  more  and  more  illegible,  and  the  appear- 
ance of  men  and  things  more  and  more  novel, 
dirty,  neglected,  and,  in  a  word,  Oriental.  At  Brza 
Palanka  we  admired  the  beautiful  undulating 
country  and  the  rich  vineyards  on  the  slopes.  On 
the  shore,  amidst  the  usual  swarm  of  geese,  pigs, 
children,  and  oxen,  the  peasants  stood  lazily 
watching  us.  Their  costume  consisted  of  short 
white  trousers,  white  blouse,  broad  waistbands,  a 
jacket  of  untanned  sheepskin  with  the  wool  in- 
side, and  a  conical  astrakan  cap.  Their  feet  were 
generally  bare,  though  some  wore  gaiters  and 
shoes  made  in  fragments  and  tied  on  with  string 
and  leather  thongs.  Some  of  these  peasants  wore 
red  fezzes.  Along  the  shore  and  up  into  the  coun- 
try stretched  a  long  procession  of  four-wheeled 
ox-carts  with  basket  sides,  laden  with  Indian  corn, 
which  was  being  transferred  into  Black  Sea  boats. 
As  I  so  down  to  breakfast  in  the  saloon  I  notice 
among  the  new  passengers  a  fat  woman  wearing 
a  red  dress  of  Occidental  cut,  enormous  earrings, 
and  a  sort  of  gold-bound  turban.  Accompanied 
by  her  husband,  her  sister,  and  half  a  dozen  grown- 


12  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

up  children,  this  huge  old  woman  is  smoking  cig- 
arettes and  playing  cards.  She  calls  out  for  the 
"  kafedjieh,"  a  gentleman  who,  in  return  for  his 
services  as  interpreter  and  check-taker  for  the 
third-class  passengers,  enjoys  the  privilege  of  sell- 
ing Turkish  coffee  and  "  rake'  "  on  board.  The 
"kafedjieh"  is  a  recognized  and  necessary  insti- 
tution on  board  all  passenger  ships  plyingin  Turk- 
ish waters  and  in  the  immediately  adjacent  parts. 
Generally  he  is  a  very  bad  character,  but  the  sight 
of  him  and  of  his  little  Turkish  coffee-pans  and 
tiny  cups  is  welcon.e  to  the  Occidental  in  quest 
of  new  sensations.  So  I,  too,  cried  out  "  Kafed- 
jieh !"  and  requested  a  cup  of  coffee  d  la  Turquc. 
And  soon  the  servile  little  scamp  arrived,  like 
Agag,  treading  delicately,  carrying  the  shining 
brass  pan  with  the  handle  protruding  at  right 
angles,  and,  balanced  on  the  pan,  a  square  brass 
tray,  and,  in  the  middle  of  the  tray,  a  tiny  porcelain 
cup  and  saucer  decorated  with  insipid  blue  and 
pink  ornaments.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  this 
dainty  combination  is  undone,  the  brass  tray  and 
the  cup  is  on  the  table  before  you,  and  the  coffee 
poured  into  the  cup  has  lost  none  of  its  aroma 
during  the  passage  from  the  kitchen  to  the  cabin. 
I  promise  myself  to  indulge  frequently  in  this 
savory  coffee  during  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

After  breakfast  I  learn  from  the  captain  that 
the  news  of  the  expulsion  of  Prince  Alexander  is 
exact.     It  appears  that  there  is  a  revolution  in 


DOWN   THE  DANUBE.  1 3 

Bulgaria.  The  captain  hopes  that  we  shall  be 
allowed  to  continue  our  journey,  but  fears  that  in 
any  case  we  shall  find  communications  interrupted 
at  Rustchuk.  I  light  a  cigarette  and  console  and 
amuse  myself  by  watching  the  huge  old  woman, 
who  is  squatting  on  deck  and  holding  in  her  lap 
a  watermelon,  which  she  is  excavating  with  a 
bowie-knife  and  distributing  in  segments  to  the 
various  rhembers  of  her  family.  There  is  a  great 
consumption  of  watermelons  on  board  ;  the  shag- 
gy, ragged,  brown-skinned  third-class  passengers 
seem  to  live  on  the  cool  rose-colored  flesh  of  the 
pasteque. 

At  Kalafat  we  are  informed  that  the  river  is  still 
open,  and  that  we  need  not  fear  to  go  on  to  Wid- 
din,  which  is  the  first  station  in  Bulgarian  terri- 
tory. The  scenery  is  still  without  interest.  Wid- 
din  comes  within  view  with  its  white,  low  houses, 
its  minarets  and  its  ruined  forts,  which  were  dis- 
mantled at  the  conclusion  of  the  last  provisional 
settlement  of  the  Eastern  question.  The  town 
looks  rather  ruined  and  miserable,  but  the  wharf 
is  the  scene  of  great  animation  and  excitement, 
all  about  nothing.  Several  Turkish  families  come 
on  board  with  all  their  household  goods  and  chat- 
tels— men,  women,  and  children,  all  laden  with 
watermelons  and  grapes  and  coarse  pottery,  and 
flying  at  the  first  rumor  of  political  troubles. 
Some  soldiers  in  white  uniforms  with  exaggerated 
epaulets,  and  a  miscellaneous  crowd  of  Armenians, 


14  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

Greeks,  and  Bulgarians  join  our  boat.  And  so 
through  the  blazing  sun  we  steamed  on  to  Rak- 
hova,  a  town  prettily  situated  on  a  hillside  ter- 
raced with  gardens  and  cottages.  But  as  a  rule 
the  scenery  continued  to  be  without  interest,  and 
the  company  on  board  had  become  very  mixed  and 
very  noisy.  In  the  evening  a  lot  of  Bulgarians 
began  talking  politics,  and  from  nine  o'clock  until 
two  in  the  morning  they  howled  and  bellowed,  and 
finally  drew  knives.  Two  champions  had  a  brief 
engagement  at  close  quarters,  and  cut  each  other's 
clothes,  and  one  received  a  gash  in  the  forearm 
before  they  could  be  separated.  Finally,  the  rev- 
olutionaries calmed  down  and  retired  to  rest ;  and 
when  I  ventured  at  last  to  go  to  my  berth,  I  found 
it  occupied  by  one  of  these  hirsute  brigands,  who 
was  lying  on  his  back,  stark  naked,  and  snoring 
like  a  threshing-machine.  Naturally  I  did  not 
venture  to  disturb  him  or  even  to  appeal  to  the 
steward.     The  circumstances  were  too  delicate. 

The  next  morning  (Wednesday)  we  arrived  at 
Rustchuk  at  7  a.  m.,  and  found  everybody  in  a 
state  of  great  alarm.  Had  we  any  news  ?  Where 
was  the  Prince  ?  What  had  happened  ?  Tele- 
graphic communication,  it  appeared,  was  interrupt- 
ed; the  wires  were  in  the  hands  of  the  revolution- 
aries. Would  the  train  run  to  Varna  that  day  ? 
"  Yes,"  replied  the  station-master,  "  but  it  is  prob- 
ably the  last  we  shall  make  up,  and  when  you  get 
to  Varna  I  cannot  guarantee  that  you  will  be  al- 


DOWN   THE   DANUBE,  15 

lowed  to  proceed.  I  believe  the  frontiers  are 
closed."  This  was  a  pleasing  prospect,  the  more 
so  as  we  knew  we  were  destined  to  undergo  five 
days'  quarantine  before  being  allowed  to  enter 
Constantinople.  However,  we  were  soon  joined 
by  a  few  passengers  from  the  Orient  Express,  and 
at  9  A.  i\i.  we  started  in  the  train  for  Varna,  where 
we  arrived  after  a  six  hours'  uninteresting  jour- 
ney under  a  broiling  sun.  No  one  was  allowed 
to  enter  the  town  of  Varna.  The  orders  were  to 
get  us  on  board  the  Austrian  Lloyd  steamer  at 
once ;  and  so  we  adventured  ourselves  in  small 
boats  on  the  choppy  Black  Sea,  scrambled  as  best 
we  could  up  the  swaying  companion-ladder  of  the 
Cei-es,  and  at  five  o'clock  the  next  morning  (Thurs- 
day) we  woke  up  at  Kavak  in  the  Bosphorus. 

II. 

Five  days'  quarantine  at  Kavak  !  Such  was  the 
good  pleasure  of  the  Sultan  ;  and  however  anxious 
we  might  be  to  admire  his  famous  capital,  there 
was  no  means  of  escaping  the  application  of  this 
decree.  And  so,  with  her  quarantine  flag  at  the 
mast-head,  and  with  quarantine  officers  in  red 
fezzes  to  guard  her  gangways,  the  Austrian  Lloyd 
steamer  Ceres  took  up  her  anchorage  snugly  just  off 
the  village  of  Kavak,  at  the  entrance  of  the  Bos- 
phorus, but  far  enough  in  to  be  sheltered  from  the 
winds  and  the  waves  of  the  Black  Sea.  The  situ- 
ation was  charming  and  interesting.     From  deck 


1 5  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

we  had  a  view  of  the  prettiest  part  of  the  Bos- 
phorus,  towards  Buyukdere  and  Therapia,  where 
we  could  distinguish  the  summer  villas  of  the  am- 
bassadors of  the  different  great  powers;  astern 
was  the  fort  of  Kavak,  built  on  a  sheltering  bluff ; 
to  the  right  and  the  left  on  each  side  of  the  Bos- 
phorus,  the  villages  of  Anatoli-Kavak  and  Roum- 
eli-Kavak,  with  the  remains  of  old  Genoese  for- 
tifications and  round  towers,  climbing  up  the 
hillside.  We  might  have  imagined  ourselves 
anchored  in  a  beautiful  mountain  lake,  for  the 
hills  rose  all  around  us,  and  in  the  distance  seemed 
to  close  the  winding  Bosphorus  at  each  end. 

Five  days'  imprisonment  on  board  this  ship ! 
It  seemed  a  long  time.  Could  we  not  go  ashore  ? 
Yes,  there  was  a  lazaretto  ;  but  experienced  trav- 
ellers warned  us  that  the  accommodation  was  of 
Turkish  simplicity.  It  was  better  to  remain  on 
board  and  pay  the  fixed  tariff  of  15  francs  a  day. 
So  we  all  remained  on  the  ship  except  a  fat  Turk 
and  his  secretary,  who  were  supposed  to  go  to  the 
lazaretto ;  but,  knowing  him  to  be  a  pacha,  we  all 
felt  perfectly  convinced  that,  when  once  ashore 
and  out  of  sight  of  the  Ceres,  he  simply  took  a 
carriage  and  rode  across  country,  and  so,  indirect- 
ly, to  Constantinople.  In  Turkey  you  can  fare 
very  well  if  you  are  a  Turk.  This  pacha  was  one 
of  the  fattest  and  roundest  men  I  have  ever  seen. 
Among  his  baggage  he  had  a  low  table,  hollowed 
out  in  a  semicircle,  and  into  this  crescent-shaped 


DOWN   THE   DANUBE.  17 

aperture  he  slid  his  majestic  abdomen  when  he 
took  his  meals.  He  could  not  sit  at  an  ordinary 
table ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  when  he  sat  cross- 
legged  in  the  orthodox  Turkish  fashion,  his  dig- 
nity spread  around  him  in  such  voluminous  con- 
centric ripples  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  ingen- 
ious contrivance  of  the  adjustable  table,  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  place  anything  within 
arm's  reach  of  his  obese  excellency,  who  would 
consequently  have  died  of  starvation.  We  regret- 
ted the  departure  of  this  rotund  personage,  as 
much  because  we  felt  sure  that  he  was  unfairly 
escaping  quarantine  as  because  his  presence 
among  us  might  have  been  a  source  of  amuse- 
ment, and  amusement  was  precisely  what  we  most 
needed,  for  how  were  we  to  pass  these  five  days  ? 
In  vain  one  would  play  the  philosopher  and  con- 
gratulate himself  on  having  cultivated,  by  long 
years  of  practice,  a  natural  faculty  for  doing  noth- 
ing. In  vain  another  would  bring  out  fishing- 
lines  from  the  bottom  of  his  trunk,  and  another 
books,  and  another  playing-cards,  while  the  ladies 
appeared  with  crochet  and  needlework.  Alas ! 
among  the  first-class  passengers  there  were  only 
four  ladies,  and  we  were  eighteen  men  to  pay 
court  to  them  and  hold  their  skeins  of  wool. 
There  was  an  English  woman,  and  a  Greek  wom- 
an, and  a  German  woman,  besides  a  venerable  old 
Armenian  matron,  with  whom  it  was  difficult  to 
exchange  ideas  because  she  only  spoke  Armenian. 


l8  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

Among  the  men  were  Armenians,  Greeks,  Turkish 
rayas  of  mixed  origin,  three  EngUshmen,  a  Ger- 
man, a  Spanish  Jew,  and  an  Italian  commercial 
traveller,  who  spoke  in  gentle  whines  and  wished 
the  company  collectively  "Bon  appdtit"  each 
time  he  sat  down  to  table.  Well,  before  the  end 
of  the  first  day's  captivity  we  had  broken  up  into 
sets,  and  the  women  had  already  "had  words" 
concerning  the  right  of  reserving  the  deck  chairs 
by  laying  a  shawl  over  the  back.  As  for  the  sets, 
the  Armenians  and  the  Greeks  formed  a  card- 
playing  and  fishing  company;  the  commercial 
traveller  paid  court  to  the  proud  German,  and 
daily  showed  his  samples  to  the  German's  wife ; 
the  Englishmen  and  the  Spanish  Jew  formed  a 
smoking  and  gossiping  set,  and  amused  them- 
selves by  observing  and  criticising  the  others  and 
collecting  and  retailing  the  major  and  minor  news 
of  the  ship. 

Our  chief  distractions  were  the  very  material 
joys  of  four  meals  a  day,  followed  by  hours  of 
beatitude  and  cigarette-smoking  on  deck  during 
the  intermediate  periods  of  digestion.  Then  we 
would  watch  the  new  ships  that  came  into  quar- 
antine alongside  of  us,  or  gaze  enviously  at  the 
pleasure  parties  gliding  up  and  down  the  Bos- 
phorus  in  swift  caiques.  For  me  this  five  days' 
station  off  Kavak  was  a  sort  of  introduction  to 
Turkish  life,  and  I  sat  for  hours  together  watch- 
ing that  lovely  little  village  and   admiring  the 


DOWN   THE   DANUBE.  19 

picturesqueness  of  those  old  Genoese  walls  and 
towers.     The  houses  of  Kavak  are  not  merely 
bathed  by  the  waters  of  the  Bosphorus  :  some  of 
them  are  built  literally  over  the  water,  and  have 
their  water-gates  like  the  houses  of  Venice,  while 
caiques  take  the  place  of  gondolas.     Built  simply 
of  wood,  and  painted  red  or  blue  or  green,  these 
houses   climb  up  the  hill  amid  rich  vegetation 
and  gardens,  rising  terrace  above  terrace ;  and, 
dominating  the  tallest  trees,  are  two  white  mina- 
rets with  their  surrounding  galleries  near  the  top. 
Five  times  a  day  we  saw  the  "  muezzin  "  appear 
in  the  gallery  at  the  top  of  each  minaret,  and 
heard  him  call  the  faithful  to  prayer  in  a  far-reach- 
ing nasal  voice,  chanting,  as  it  were,  a  prolonged 
and  melancholy  wail.     At  this  signal  the  pious 
Turks,  who  swarmed  on  our  third-class  deck,would 
take  their  pitchers,  and,  after  performing  the  prop- 
er ablutions  at  the  ship's  pump,  each  one  spread 
out  his  carpet,  turned  his  face  towards  Mecca, 
and  religiously  said  his  prayers,  yawning,  stroking 
his  beard,  and  prostrating  himself  to  the  ground 
according  to  the  ritual  of  the  Prophet.     The  ven- 
erable old  Turk,  with  whom  I  had  travelled  nearly 
all  the  way  from  Buda-Pesth,  particularly  edified 
me  by  his  piety.     He  wore  the  turban  of  the  faith- 
ful who  have  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  and 
he  was  most  exact  in  his  religious  observances, 
even  bearing  on  his  brow  the  trace  of  his  piety ; 
for  you  must  know  that  the  Moslem  interupts  his 


20  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

prayer  from  time  to  time  in  order  to  prostrate 
himself  and  strike  his  forehead  against  the  ground. 
It  is  on  account  of  these  prostrations  that  the  Mos- 
lem is  obliged  to  wear  a  head-covering  without 
brim  or  peak,  for  it  is  contrary  to  custom  and  con- 
trary to  all  the  rules  of  politeness  to  appear  bare- 
headed in  public  or  in  any  incidents  of  serious 
life.  But,  as  the  mosque  floors  are  always  covered 
with  matting,  and  as  the  faithful  may  be  forced 
by  circumstances  to  pray  in  all  sorts  of  inconven- 
ient places,  the  good  Moslem  will  always  carry  in 
his  pocket  a  potsherd,  which  he  can  place  on  the 
floor  in  front  of  his  prayer-carpet  wherever  he  may 
be,  and  so  have  the  wherewithal  to  mark  his  brow. 
My  pious  Turk  carried  his  potsherd  with  him. 
He  had  also  his  Koran  in  a  case.  And  each 
time  after  his  prayer  he  brewed  himself  a  cup  of 
coffee  over  a  spirit-lamp,  rolled  a  cigarette,  and 
smoked  it  with  dignity,  looking  all  the  time  the 
very  picture  of  calm  and  venerable  felicity. 

This  third-class  deck  interested  me  continually, 
and  two  or  three  times  a  day  I  would  stroll  aft 
discreetly  and  glance  at  this  strange  collection  of 
Mussulman  humanity — men,  women,  and  children 
reclining  or  sitting  cross-legged  or  on  their  heels, 
amidst  a  confused  mass  of  carpets,  mattresses, 
bright-colored  wrappers,  watermelons,  earthenware 
pitchers,  and  household  utensils  of  all  kinds.  The 
women  all  smoke  cigarettes,  and  all  have  their 
faces  and   shoulders  wrapped  up  in  thin  white 


DOWN    THE   DANUBE,  21 

veils.  One  of  them  has  a  cage  of  doves — a  scar- 
let cage  of  complicated  form,  and  painted  with 
bright  blue  and  green  ornaments. 

On  Friday,  which  is  the  Mussulman  Sunday,  the 
Bosphorus  was  gay  with  caiques,  those  wonderful 
kirlangich  or  "  swallow-boats,"  which  are  as  char- 
acteristic of  Constantinople  as  gondolas  are  of 
Venice.  The  caique  is  generally  made  of  thin 
planks  of  beech-wood,  with  a  neat  finish  and  more 
or  less  elaborate  carving.  It  is  sharply  pointed 
at  both  ends  ;  the  oars,  very  thin,  wide,  and  light 
at  the  feather  end,  become  thick  and  bulbous  at 
the  handle ;  the  passengers  sit  in  the  bottom  on 
carpets  or  cushions  at  one  end,  and  at  the  other 
sit  the  rowers,  who  vary  in  number  from  one  to 
six,  in  which  case  they  sit  three  on  each  side. 
Nothing  is  more  graceful  and  elegant  in  aspect 
and  movement  than  one  of  these  caiques,  bearing 
a  burden  of  fair  Turkish  ladies  clad  in  silks  of 
every  hue,  with  a  fat  eunuch  at  the  helm,  and  six 
stalwart  Nubians  in  rose-colored  jackets  pulling 
at  the  oars  with  rhythmic  swing.  The  good  peo- 
ple of  Kavak  also  came  out  in  their  caiques,  or 
strolled  up  the  hillside  and  sat  under  the  shade 
trees,  the  mothers,  accompanied  by  their  children 
and  their  handmaidens,  gravely  draped  in  "  yach- 
machs"  and  "feridjis;"  some,  too,  rode  upon 
asses,  and  the  scene  was  patriarchal  and  biblic, 
and  reminded  one  of  the  promised  joys  of  Ma- 
homet's paradise,  which  are  simply  the  joys  of 


22  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

life  in  this  little  village  of  Kavak  idealized  and  re- 
lieved of  the  disagreeable  accident  of  temporality. 
The  Koran,  it  is  true,  says  nothing  about  water 
promenades  in  caiques,  owing,  doubtless,  to  the 
fact  that  Mahomet  never  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing the  Bosphorus  and  its  swallow-boats  ;  but  the 
Prophet  does  say  distinctly  that  those  who  enter 
paradise  shall  dwell  in  delicious  gardens  shaded 
by  fine  trees  and  watered  by  ever-fresh  streams. 
The  elect,  he  continues,  shall  rest  on  couches 
adorned  with  gold  and  precious  stones ;  young 
slaves  of  unfading  beauty  shall  pour  into  their 
cups  delicious  wine,  which  will  not  get  into  their 
heads  or  trouble  their  reason ;  ripe  fruits  and 
birds  ready  roasted  will  always  be  within  reach 
of  their  hand ;  they  shall  hear  neither  accusations 
nor  vain  discourse ;  the  word  peace  shall  re-echo 
on  all  sides  ;  and,  besides  the  wives  he  had  upon 
earth,  each  of  the  elect  shall  be  served  by  at  least 
sixty-two  beautiful  young  maidens  with  black  eyes 
like  pearls  hidden  in  oyster  shells ;  and  the  con- 
tinual presence  of  these  houris  shall  be  the  recom- 
pense of  the  good  he  shall  have  done  on  earth. 
To  us  prisoners  on  board  the  Ceres  the  simple 
villagers  of  Kavak,  sitting  calmly  under  their 
shade  trees,  or  skimming  in  their  caiques  over 
the  Bosphorus,  seemed  to  be  already  enjoying  the 
bliss  of  paradise.  Happily  our  captivity  was 
drawing  towards  an  end.  On  Monday  we  count- 
ed gayly  the  successive  prayer-calls  of  the  "  muez- 


DOWN   THE   DANUBE.  23 

zin,"  and  at  night,  instead  of  listening  impatient- 
ly to  the  wailing  cry  of  the  sentries  passed  from 
station  to  station  along  the  coast,  we  improvised  an 
orchestra  on  deck  and  had  a  dance,  accompanied 
with  rockets  and  Bengal  fire,  which  the  captain 
brought  from  the  signal  stores.  Our  orchestra 
consisted  of  an  accordion,  a  kettle  drum,  and  a 
triangle.  The  steward  performed  on  the  former 
instrument;  the  first  lieutenant  made  an  empty 
biscuit-tin  do  duty  as  a  drum ;  and  the  ingenious 
captain,  armed  with  a  toast-rack  and  a  roasting- 
spit,  produced  silvery  sounds  similar  to  those  of 
the  triangle.  And  so  we  ended  our  quarantine 
gayly,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  last  day  of  Au- 
gust, 1886,  we  steamed  down  the  Bosphorus  with 
clean  papers,  and  at  last  the  panorama  of  Con- 
stantinople spread  itself  in  white  and  luminous 
splendor  before  our  eyes. 


CONSTANTINOPLE. 

I. 

The  fuliginous  and  anti-picturesque  mechanism 
of  the  steam-engine  has  certainly  an  impressive 
grandeur  of  its  own,  but  the  progress  of  electricity 
and  of  ballooning  permits  us  to  hope  that  it  will 
prove  to  be  only  a  transitory  invention.  This 
hope  seems  particularly  consoling  when  we  find 
that  we  have  to  enter  the  Golden  Horn  through 
a  thick  cloud  of  foul  coal-smoke,  vomited  forth  in 
gigantic  spirals  from  the  chimneys  of  innumer- 
able steamers.  It  is  disappointing  to  contem- 
plate for  the  first  time  the  fairy  city  of  Constan- 
tine  as  it  were  through  darkly  smoked  glasses. 
Alas !  the  mysterious  and  meditative  life  of  the 
East  is  no  longer  refractory  to  the  hasty  activity 
of  the  West.  So-called  barbarism  is  vanishing, 
and  with  it  are  vanishing  the  splendors  of  a  world 
which  was  more  concerned  with  beauty  than  with 
convenience.  However,  by  a  slight  effort  of  im- 
agination, one  can  eliminate  the  smoke,  the  shriek- 
ing steam-whistles,  and  a  few  hideous  barrack-like 
buildings  dotted  here  and  there  on  the  hills,  and 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  2$ 

then  Constantinople  appears  before  us  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  brilliant  that  we  can  hardly  believe  it 
to  be  real.  It  seems  more  like  a  magnificent 
scene  painted  by  some  Titanic  artist  for  a  theatre 
of  Babylonian  immensity.  And  this  first  impres- 
sion is  exact,  in  a  way,  for  closer  acquaintance 
will  show  that  Constantinople  is  a  city  of  appar- 
ent and  ephemeral  gorgeousness,  which  one  feels 
may  some  day  suddenly  disappear  at  the  signal 
of  a  mighty  and  unknown  scene-shifter. 

Before  the  anchor  was  cast,  the  Ceres  was  sur- 
rounded by  caiques  and  small  boats  of  all  kinds, 
and  picturesque-looking  watermen  and  hotel  touts 
offered  their  services  in  all  the  languages  of  the 
earth ;  shouting  each  other  down,  and  bewilder- 
ing the  stranger  with  the  babel  of  their  voices. 
Finally  we  stopped  in  mid-stream ;  with  a  crash 
and  a  whirr  the  anchor  fell,  and  in  a  second  the 
deck  swarmed  with  porters,  who  had  scaled  the 
sides  of  the  ship  without  waiting  for  the  compan- 
ion ladders  to  be  lowered.  Under  the  guidance 
of  the  tout  of  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre  I  was  con- 
ducted ashore,  and,  having  an  absolute  minimum 
of  luggage,  I  faced  the  custom-house  officers  bold- 
ly, laid  my  valise  on  the  muddy  pavement,  showed 
them  my  spotless  linen  and  my  inoffensive  change 
of  shoes,  and  assured  them  that  I  had  no  books. 
The  Turkish  authorities  are  peculiarly  keen  in 
searching  for  books,  which  they  generally  seize 
and  send  to  the  censorship  for  examination ;  and 


26  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

the  censor,  if  he  does  not  confiscate  them,  tears 
out  or  obliterates  any  remarks  they  may  contain 
disparaging  to  Turkey  or  to  Turkish  institutions. 
Even  the  Divine  Comedy  is  prohibited  in  the 
Sultan's  dominions,  because  Dante  has  spoken  in 
unflattering  terms  of  Mahomet.  I  may  observe, 
once  for  all,  that  the  Turks  seem  to  do  all  in  their 
power  to  discourage  travellers  from  visiting  their 
country,  while  Turkish  officials  of  all  classes  look 
upon  the  foreigner  as  legitimate  prey,  and  upon 
bagchich  as  a  sure  source  of  revenue,  which  Provi- 
dence has  given  them  to  compensate  for  the  ir- 
regularity of  the  payments  of  their  empty  nation- 
al treasury.  Travelling,  like  life  itself,  is  a  per- 
petual sacrifice  ;  but  one  soon  gets  accustomed  to 
its  inconveniences  and  irritating  extortions,  even 
in  Turkey,  where  they  pass  all  measure.  It  is 
useless  to  grumble.  At  a  French  watering-place 
where  I  once  spent  the  summer,  there  was  among 
the  visitors  a  portly  gentleman,  who  was  always 
complaining  of  the  accommodation,  of  the  cooking, 
of  the  service,  of  ever^'thing.  "  From  what  you 
say,  monsieur,"  said  the  head-waiter  to  him  one 
day,  "  you  must  live  very  comfortably  in  your  own 
home,  and  your  domestic  arrangements  must  be 
perfection."  "  Mon  Dieu !  yes,"  answered  the 
murmuring  guest,  unsuspectingly.  "  Then  why 
do  you  come  to  live  here?"  asked  the  waiter. 
Evidently,  one  does  not  go  travelling  over  the 
face  of  the  earth  in  search  of  the  comforts  of  home, 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  27 

and  therefore  I  shall  beg  leave  to  say  no  more 
about  the  discomforts  of  Constantinople. 

Delivered  from  the  hands  of  the  custom-house 
officers,  I  followed  my  guide  through  the  narrow 
and  tortuous  streets  of  Galata ;  ascended  the 
heights  of  Pdra  by  the  tunnel  railway ;  demanded 
hospitality  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre — one  of  the 
dearest  and  most  comfortless  inns  I  have  yet  dis- 
covered ;  and,  after  a  sort  of  breakfast,  I  started 
out  to  explore  the  city,  taking  with  me  a  long- 
legged  and  intelligent  guide,  whose  name  was 
Perikles,  and  whose  services  were  most  valuable. 
The  foreigner  who  speaks  neither  Greek  nor  Turk- 
ish cannot  well  dispense  with  a  guide. 

Pdra  is  the  Frankish  quarter  of  Constantinople, 
—  a  long,  narrow,  irregular  street,  lined  with  Eu- 
ropean shops,  and  traversed  along  the  upper  part 
by  a  tramway.  Yes,  there  is  a  tramway  at  Con- 
stantinople. Alas !  there  are  tramways  every- 
where, nowadays,  even  at  Bagdad,  the  capital  of 
the  Caliph  Abdallah  Haroun  Alraschid.  There 
are  European  cafes  in  the  Grand  Rue  de  Pe'ra, 
and  Tauchnitz  editions  in  the  windows  of  the 
bookstores.  It  is  a  mongrel,  cosmopolitan  quar- 
ter, comparatively  clean,  well-built,  and  uninterest- 
ing. Let  us  away,  Perikles,  and  over  the  water  to 
old  Stamboul. 

No  ;  not  by  the  tunnel.  Enough  of  steam  and 
progress  and  Western  civilization.  On  foot  we 
will  go  ;  and,  first  of  all,  to  the  Petit  Champ,  to  the 


28  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

old  Turkish  cemetery,  part  of  which  has  been 
converted  into  a  public  garden.  A  little  way  up 
Pdra  Street,  turn  to  the  left,  and  here  we  are  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill  that  slopes  down  from  Pe'ra 
to  the  Golden  Horn,  and  before  us  is  Stamboul, 
with  its  mosques  and  minarets.  At  our  feet  the 
slope  is  dotted  with  sable  cypress-trees  and  mar- 
ble stakes  surmounted  by  turbans,  on  which  may 
still  be  seen  traces  of  color.  These  stakes,  which 
are  tombstones,  lean  at  all  angles  —  some  to  the 
risht,  some  to  the  left — while  others  lie  flat  on  the 
ground,  half  buried  and  broken  in  fragments  by 
their  fall.  This  cemetery  has  long  been  aban- 
doned by  the  Mussulmans,  who  will  not  bury  their 
dead  in  such  close  vicinity  to  the  Giaours ;  and 
gradually  the  living  are  reconquering  the  terri- 
tory, and  wooden  houses  and  gardens  are  spring- 
ing up  on  the  hillside,  and  roads  traverse  the  field 
of  the  dead ;  and  behold  the  inevitable  tramway 
clattering  along  under  the  shade  of  the  funereal 
cypresses  ! 

Beyond  this  foreground  of  cypresses  and  tomb- 
stones, we  see  the  brown  roofs  and  red  houses  of 
the  quarter  of  Kassim  Pacha ;  beyond  this  belt  of 
habitations  are  the  blue  waters  of  the  Golden  Horn 
— that  long  gulf  which  stretches  from  the  Bosphor- 
us  up  to  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Europe ;  while  the 
background  of  the  picture  is  occupied  by  the 
amphitheatre  of  undulating  hills  on  whose  slopes 
Stamboul  is  built.     Beneath  the   pure  blue  sky 


CONSTANTINOPLE.-  29 

and  in  the  clear  white  hght  of  the  morning  sun, 
the  magnificent  Hne  of  the  horizon  extends  from 
the  Seven  Towers  to  the  heights  of  Eyoub,  varied 
by  the  brown  domes  of  the  bazaars  and  baths, 
the  white  minarets  of  the  mosques,  the  arches  of 
the  old  aqueduct  of  Valens,  the  tufts  of  cypress 
and  plane  trees  that  spring  here  and  there  from 
amid  the  rose  and  blue  masses  of  the  roofs, 
and,  at  the  extremities,  by  the  suburban  houses, 
whose  smiling  gardens  embroider  the  old  ramparts 
of  the  Palffiologi.  To  the  extreme  left  is  the  pal- 
ace of  Serai-Bournou,  with  its  white  battlemented 
walls,  its  trellised  kiosks,  its  shady  gardens ;  the 
mosque  of  Sultan  Achmet,  with  its  majestic  cupo' 
la  guarded  by  six  snow-white  minarets ;  Saint  So- 
phia resting  its  dome  heavily  on  its  solid  props 
of  confused  masonry,  surmounted  by  four  minar- 
ets; the  mosque  of  Bayezid,  with  its  fluttering 
canopy  of  pigeons.  Then  come  the  Yeni-Djami, 
the  buildings  of  the  War  Department,  and  the  im- 
mense column  of  the  Seraskier  tower,  from  whose 
summit  the  watchman  scans  the  combustible  city 
day  and  night,  to  signal  the  smoke  of  the  com- 
mencing fires.  To  the  right  is  the  Arabian  finesse 
and  elegance  of  the  Suleimanieh,  and  other  minor 
mosques,  which  rise  with  lesser  splendor,  towards 
Balata.  And  all  this  panorama  is  reflected  in  the 
silvery  mirror  of  the  Golden  Horn,  and  seems  to 
be  painted  with  the  colors  of  a  dream — roseate, 
opaline,  lustred,  delicate,  and  caressing,  like  the 


30  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

colors  of  orchids,  those  dream-flowers.  It  is  true, 
the  marvellous  picture  requires  certain  conditions 
of  light  and  perspective;  and  we  have  only  to 
cross  the  bridge,  to  climb  those  tortuous  and  nar- 
row streets,  and  to  come  close  to  those  fragile 
palaces,  in  order  to  convince  ourselves  that  the 
splendor  of  Constantinople  is  as  unreal  as  the 
splendor  of  the  architectural  fictions  of  the  scene- 
painter.  Nevertheless,  the  fact  of  our  having 
been  admitted  to  the  dusty  coulisses  does  not  au- 
thorize us  to  deny  the  sublimity  of  the  spectacle. 

II. 

To  reach  Stamboul,  you  cross  the  bridge  of  boats 
which  stretches  over  the  Golden  Horn  from  Top- 
hane  to  the  other  side.  To  approach  this  bridge, 
you  pass  through  the  commercial  quarter  of  Gala- 
ta,  where  there  are  shops  that  remind  one  of  the 
shops  in  the  Bowery  at  New  York,  a  Bourse,  and 
a  profusion  of  money-changers'  stalls,  where  you 
change  your  good  gold  for  heavy  silver  medijiehs 
and  diyx\.Y  paras,  whose  base  alloy  is  stamped  with 
decorative  Turkish  characters.  All  over  the  city 
the  money-changers  have  their  tables,  which  they 
set  up  in  doorways  and  at  street-corners,  like  the 
Auvergnats,  who  sell  roasted  chestnuts,  and  en- 
sconce their  portable  ovens  under  the  partes- 
cocJieres  of  Paris.  The  word  "table,"  although 
consecrated  by  Scripture,  is  not  quite  exact,  for 
these  tables  are  in  the  shape  of  glass  show-cases, 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  3 1 

in  which  are  displayed,  safe  from  the  grasp  of 
too  nimble  fingers,  the  various  currencies  of  the 
Levant  and  of  all  the  other  countries  of  the  earth, 
intermingled  often  with  jewelled  arms,  precious 
stones,  or  gold  ornaments. 

After  paying  ?i  para  to  one  of  the  toll-keepers 
who  stand  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  we  found 
ourselves  in  a  new  atmosphere.  While  passing 
through  the  narrow  streets  of  Galata,  I  had  been 
so  deafened  and  bewildered  by  the  noise  and 
movement  that  I  had  gathered  nothing  but  a  con- 
fused impression  of  a  motley  crowd  of  men  and 
dogs  and  vehicles,  and  of  a  babel  of  sounds,  above 
which  rose  the  shrill  cries  of  the  street-venders 
and  the  repetition  of  the  warning  guarda,  uttered 
by  the  muleteers  and  drivers.  On  the  bridge — 
which  is  built  of  roughly  hewn  beams  laid  cross- 
wise, worn  by  tramping  hoofs  into  cavities  and 
ruts,  and  always  under  repair — pack-horses,  mules, 
asses,  carriages,  and  bullock-carts  jolt  and  rumble 
along ;  from  time  to  time  the  stylish  coupe  of 
some  pacha  or  high  official  dashes  past,  with  the 
clatter  of  a  discharge  of  artillery ;  amid  the  vehi- 
cles and  on  the  sidewalks,  there  is  a  constant  go- 
ing to  and  fro  of  representatives  of  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth,  clad  in  all  the  costumes  of  the  East 
and  of  the  West ;  on  each  side  the  bridge  are 
the  landing-stages  for  the  local  steamers  which 
ply  up  and  down  the  Golden  Horn  and  along  the 
Bosphorus  ;  darting  in  and  out,  under  the  bridge, 


32  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

are  caiques  and  row-boats ;  and  all  around,  which- 
ever way  we  look,  are  mosques  and  minarets  and 
domes  —  the  panorama  of  Constantinople,  the 
white  fairy  seated  in  calm  majesty  on  her  throne 
of  seven  hills. 

Leaving  the  bridge,  and  crossing  the  market  on 
the  quay,  radiant  with  ppamids  of  watermelons, 
we  arrive  at  Stamboul :  eis  tenpolin,  as  the  Greeks 
used  to  say ;  Istamboul,  as  the  Turkish  ear  caught 
the  sounds.  Now,  first  of  all,  good  Perikles,  guide 
me  to  the  bezestin,  to  the  khans,  to  the  bazaar, 
so  that  I  may  see  in  what  conditions  the  Sultan 
of  Casgar's  purveyor  sold  his  rich  stuffs  to  the 
favorite  Zobeide,  in  the  days  of  the  Caliph  Ha- 
roun  Alraschid. 

"  But  Haroun  Alraschid  lived  at  Bagdad,  kurie,'' 
objects  Perikles. 

"  Bagdad,  Damascus,  Balsora,  the  island  of  the 
Old  Man  of  the  Sea  —  the  place  matters  little; 
all  over  the  East  the  bezestin  is  similar.  Lead 
on,  Perikles !  Are  not  these  men  in  tall  black 
fezzes  Persian  merchants  ?  Is  not  the  first  bazaar 
we  shall  come  to  the  Egyptian  bezestin  ?" 

In  a  few  minutes  we  enter  an  immense  galler}-, 
which  at  first  seems  almost  dark  in  comparison 
with  the  bright  light  of  the  street  which  we  have 
just  left.  Is  it  a  gallery  or  a  tunnel  ?  Straight 
ahead  the  obscurity  grows  more  opaque,  until  the 
eye  distinguishes,  in  the  far  distance,  a  luminous 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  33 

patch,  the  exit  at  the  other  end  of  the  galler}-. 
The  pavement,  laid  centuries  ago,  and  sloping 
gently  towards  a  central  gutter,  is  composed  of 
irregular  stones,  separated  by  interstices  of  vary- 
ing dimensions  ;  indeed,  sometimes  the  interstices 
dominate,  and  the  stones  have  disappeared.  Then, 
on  each  side  are  the  stalls  of  the  merchants,  and  the 
merchandise  displayed  in  heaps  or  in  open  sacks — 
henne,  sandal-wood,  cinnamon,  ambergris,  benzoin, 
mastic,  opium,  hachich,  sulphur,  ginger,  antimony, 
powder  of  aloes,  and  mountains  of  aromatic  drugs, 
which  exhale  a  penetrating  exotic  odor  that  seems 
to  stupefy  the  grave  merchants,  who  sit,  dreamy 
and  motionless,  awaiting  the  customer's  call. 

At  the  end  of  this  gloomy  gallery  a  lateral  alley 
is  devoted  to  the  cotton  market,  and  there  the 
activity  appears  greater,  and  operations  of  weigh- 
ing and  bargaining  are  going  on. 

We  continue  our  route  through  a  narrow  street, 
occupied  by  the  copper  and  tin  smiths,  who  are 
manufacturing  pots  and  pans  with  a  deafening  clat- 
ter of  hammers  ;  and  so  we  enter  the  grand  bazaar. 
This  name  must  not  mislead  the  reader.  The  ex- 
terior aspect  of  the  great  bezestin  has  nothing 
monumental ;  the  brownish-gray  blank  walls,  with- 
out windows,  are  surmounted  by  flattened  domes, 
and  attached  to  these  walls,  like  lichens  and  fungi 
around  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  are  innumerable  sheds, 
and  stalls,  and  parasitic  structures,  occupied  by 
minor  industries. 


34 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


The  bazaar  covers  an  immense  tract  of  ground, 
and  forms  a  sort  of  subterranean  town  within  a 
town,  having  its  streets,  and  squares,  and  cross- 
roads, and  fountains,  its   restaurants    and  bath- 
houses, surmounted  by  cupolas,  where  men  and 
women  go  at  all  hours  of  the  day  to  submit  their 
bodies  to  the  delights  of  massage  and  shampoo- 
ing ;  the  whole  composing  a  labyrinth  of  sombre 
galleries,  where  a  stranger  can  with  difficulty  find 
his  way,  even  after  many  visits.     The  streets  are 
long,  vaulted  passages,  and  the  light  falls  from 
the  roof  through  windows  reserved  in  the  summits 
of  those  little  cupolas  which  we  saw  from  the  Pe'ra 
heights — a  soft,  vague,  and  suspicious  light,  more 
favorable  to  the  seller  than  to  the  buyer.     The 
walls  and  ceilings  of  these  lofty  galleries  are  white- 
washed or  tinted,  and  relieved  with  garish  orna- 
ments in  blue  or  red  ;  and  on  each  side  are  stalls  ; 
and  behind  the  stalls  are  inner  shops,  where  the 
more  precious  objects  are  kept.     In  this  gallery 
are  piles  of  gaudy  Manchester  cotton  goods  and 
all  kinds  of  mercery ;  other  galleries  are  devoted 
to   shoe-shops ;    in  others  are   arms,  silks   from 
Broussa,  Indian  and  Persian  cashmeres,  dolmans 
stiff  with  gold  embroidery,  caftans,  gandourahs,  and 
other  vestments  of  exquisite  colors ;  in  another 
gallery  are  the  sellers  of  rose-water,  cosmetics, 
perfumes,  chaplets  of  amber,  jade,  ivory,  and  fruit- 
stones  ;  here  are  the  spinners  of  gold  and  silver 
thread  for  embroidering  slippers,  tunics,  cushions, 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  35 

and  uniforms.  Ignoring  or  disdaining  machines, 
the  spinners  sit  barefooted,  and,  with  the  ends  of 
the  strands  attached  to  their  big  toe,  they  twist 
delicate  cords  of  supple  metal,  as  they  smoke  in- 
terminably cigarettes  of  perfumed  tobacco.  Here, 
in  a  bare  and  cold-looking  gallery,  are  the  diamond 
merchants  and  dealers  in  precious  stones,  who 
hide  in  their  miserable  stalls  incredible  riches, 
over  which  they  keep  watch,  like  the  others,  smok- 
ing cigarettes  or  nargilehs.  And  all  day  long  the 
bazaar  seems  to  be  full  of  people.  The  dealers 
are  Turks,  Jews,  Armenians,  Persians,  Greeks ; 
the  buyers  are  of  equally  miscellaneous  national- 
ity ;  and  amid  the  crowd,  rendered  so  picturesque 
by  the  variety  and  color  of  the  costumes,  there 
circulate  itinerant  venders  of  fruit,  of  water,  of 
bread  and  cheese,  of  kebabs,  and  of  sweet  cakes 
and  bread-rings  sprinkled  over  with  crushed  al- 
monds. Here  and  there  you  come  to  a  little 
cafe,  where  groups  of  men  may  be  seen  sitting 
cross-legged,  and  pulling  away  at  hubble-bubbles. 
There,  through  an  open  door,  you  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  first  chamber  of  a  bath-house,  where  you 
see  men  with  shaven  crowns  standing  about 
wrapped  in  white  peignoirs,  or  lounging  on  divans. 
Suddenly  you  hear  a  horrible  sound  of  monoto- 
nous and  piercing  howling,  and  a  tall  figure,  clad 
in  rags,  is  seen  towering  above  the  crowd.  It  is 
a  blind  beggar,  who,  with  his  palms  held  open 
behind  his  ears,  is  shrieking  at  the  top  of  his 


36  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

voice,  or,  as  he  would  say,  singing.  During  my 
stay  in  Constantinople  my  favorite  amusement  o£ 
an  afternoon  was  to  go  over  to  Stamboul,  accept 
the  kind  invitation  of  some  merchant  to  take  cof- 
fee in  his  shop,  and  sit  there  for  an  hour,  gossip- 
ins:  and  watching  the  movement  of  the  bezestin. 
Such  an  invitation  may  be  readily  accepted,  and 
you  may  even  inspect  a  merchant's  whole  stock 
without  buying  anything,  and  yet  he  will  not 
grudge  you  his  hospitality  and  the  savory  cup  of 
coffee.  It  is  not  the  splendor  of  the  bazaar  that 
strikes  one  ;  indeed,  as  we  have  seen,  the  bazaar 
is  a  dirty,  ill-lighted,  and  cheap-looking  place.  It 
is  not  the  aspect  of  multifarious  merchandise — 
rich  stuffs,  and  all  the  fabulous  luxury  of  the 
East — for,  after  all,  there  is  little  but  paltry  and 
current  goods  in  the  bazaar  nowadays,  and  our 
Western  dealers,  and  even  such  establishments 
as  the  Louvre,  the  Bon  Marche,  and  the  other 
grand  bazaars  of  London  and  Paris,  can  boast 
a  finer  stock  of  stuffs,  carpets,  and  Oriental  arms 
than  any  of  the  dealers  of  Constantinople,  The 
routes  of  commerce  have  changed,  and  the  travel- 
ler who  goes  to  Stamboul  thinking  to  come  back 
laden  with  treasures  is  doomed  to  disappointment. 
If  he  does  happen  to  find  something  exceptional, 
he  will  inevitably  pay  dearer  for  it  than  he  would 
pay  in  other  parts  of  Europe  ;  and  that,  too,  after 
having  had  to  go  through  the  disagreeable  proc- 
ess of  bargaining  and  beating  down,  which  is  the 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  37 

beginning  and  end  of  Oriental  ideas  of  business. 
My  experience  in  the  bezestin  revealed  to  me  the 
fact  that,  as  a  rule,  the  dealers  ask  for  any  object, 
even  for  a  pair  of  babouches,  just  five  times  the 
price  they  are  willing  to  accept.     Nor  did  they 
ask  me  this  price  because  I  was  a  Frank  and  a 
Giaour,  but  because  such  is  their  habit,  whether 
they  are  dealing  with  Franks,  or  Mussulmans,  or 
Zoroastrians.     No  ;  to  my  mind  the   interest  of 
the  bazaar  is  in  the  general  aspect.     The  bazaar 
forms  a  sort  of  neutral  ground,  where  you  can 
observe  the  Turk,  and  the  Persian,  and  all  the 
other  people  who  meet  there,  without  their  resent- 
ing your  curiosity  j  it  is  a  place  where  curiosity  is 
legitimate,  and  where  everybody  indulges  freely 
in  the  satisfaction  of  that  sentiment.     Above  all, 
the  bazaar  is  an  Oriental  institution,  which  has 
remained  unchanged  except  in  the  character  of 
the  goods  sold.     It  is  true,  one  sees  there  bales 
of  Manchester  cottons,  rolls  of  English  cloth,  car- 
goes of  Russian  hollow-ware ;  but  this  fact  does 
not  prevent  one  seeing  at  every  moment  details 
of  life  and  customs  which  are  precisely  noted  in 
that  inimitable  mixture  of  fancy  and  realism,  the 
stories  of  Scheherazade.     It  is  a  perpetual  charm 
to  the  eyes  to  see  this  living  exhibition  of  cos- 
tume ;  to  note  here  a  dervish,  there  a  turbaned 
Turk  who  has  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca, 
there  a  grave  Persian,  and  there  a  swarthy  eunuch 
who  cannot  find  diamonds  big  enough  for  his 


38  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

vanity.  It  is  amusing,  too,  to  watch  the  coquettish 
ladies  of  the  middle  classes,  who  come  in  groups 
of  two  or  three,  followed  by  their  children  and 
their  negresses,  the  latter  carrying  big  bags,  into 
which  their  mistresses  pass  their  purchases.  For, 
although  Moslem  jealousy  does  not  allow  women 
to  keep  shop,  and  although  in  the  whole  quarter 
of  Stamboul  you  will  not  see  a  single  woman  of 
any  nationality  engaged  in  commercial  occupa- 
tions, there  are  no  more  active  buyers  and  no 
keener  bargainers  than  the  Turkish  ladies. 
Draped  in  their  long  feridj is,  and  with  their  faces 
and  heads  enveloped  in  the  white  yachmach,  they 
spend  hours  and  hours  in  the  bazaars,  chattering 
like  magpies,  and  lavishing  torrents  of  abuse  on 
the  "  dog  of  a  Christian,"  on  the  "  son  of  a  father 
who  is  roasting  in  hell,"  on  the  Giaour  who  dares 
to  look  too  fixedly  into  their  beautiful,  flashing 
eyes.  Sometimes,  also,  but  then  under  the  guard 
of  a  eunuch,  you  see  in  the  bazaar  women  of 
higher  rank  —  perfumed  flowers  of  the  harem, 
whose  white  and  delicate  visages  the  sun  has 
never  tarnished,  but  who,  like  their  less  favored 
sisters,  seem  to  dream  only  of  dress  and  sugar- 
plums. 

I  confess  that  this  contempt  of  the  Franks, 
which  the  Turks  do  not  disguise,  gave  me  much 
pleasure.  They  at  least,  among  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth,  have  not  bowed  the  knee  before  the 
idol  of  progress.     Firm  in  the  faith  of  their  fa- 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  39 

thers,  they  calmly  ignore  Western  civilization ;  and 
if  they  do  recognize  the  existence  of  the  Occident- 
al, it  is  only  to  despise  him,  and  not  to  ape  him 
and  thereby  lose  their  own  personality,  which  has 
been  the  fate  of  so  many  nations  who  have  be- 
come the  victims  of  Western  propagandism  and 
Western  ideas.     At  Constantinople,  or,  at  least, 
in  Stamboul,  you  feel  that  you,  a  Frank,  do  not 
exist  in  the  eyes  of  the  Turk.     You  may  wear  the 
largest  check  suit  that  a  London  tailor  can  pro- 
duce, and  yet  the  Turk  will  pass  without  deign- 
ing even  to  look  at  you.     At  the  public  fountains 
he  will  go  through  all  his  religious  ablutions  in 
your  presence  as  if  you  were  miles  away.     He 
will  spread  out  his  carpet,  turn  his  face  towards 
IMecca,  and  say  his  prayers  while  you  are  looking 
on  ;  and  so  mean  are  you  in  his  estimation  that 
he  ignores  you.     For  this  dignity  and  stability  of 
character  I  respect  the  Turk ;  and  I  am  grateful 
to  him  for  procuring  me  a  sensation  which  is  not 
common  in  foreign  travel,  in  Europe  at  any  rate 
— the  sensation  that  I  am  an  intruder,  a  con- 
temptible dog,  a  person  worthy  only  to  be  spat 
upon  and  killed.     Happily,  the  diplomatic  rela- 
tions which  the   Sublime  Porte   still  entertains 
with  the  Western  world  guarantee  the  material 
security  of  the  traveller  in  the  Sultan's  dominions. 
But  everything  in  Constantinople  tells  us  that  the 
Turk,  although  he  has  now  been  living  in  Europe 
for  centuries,  is  still  a  nomad  in  nature  and  a 


40  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

conqueror  by  iriclination.  In  Constantinople  the 
Turks  camp  rather  than  dwell,  and  were  they  to 
be  driven  out  of  the  city  to-morrow,  they  would 
leave  behind  them  no  monument  of  their  genius 
but  tottering  tombstones  and  tumble-down  wood- 
en houses. 

III. 

Anything  comparable  to  the  paltriness  and  filth 
of  the  streets  of  Stamboul  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find ;  and  yet  nothing  can  be  more  interesting 
than  a  ramble  in  the  maze  of  narrow  alleys  which 
branch  out  in  all  directions  around  the  bezestin, 
and  cover  the  slope,  which  is  crowned  by  the 
Seraskier  tower,  with  a  close  network  of  humble 
but  busy  workshops.  In  these  streets  you  are 
always  going  up-hill  or  down-hill ;  the  pavement 
is  of  indescribable  irregularity,  and  at  every  few 
yards'  distance  it  sinks,  and  in  the  hole  thus 
formed  you  find  a  litter  of  puppies,  on  which  you 
must  beware  of  treading  unless  you  wish  to  pro- 
voke the  anger  of  the  mother;  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  in  the  gutter,  along  the  narrow  curb- 
stone, in  the  sun,  in  the  shade,  everywhere  and  at 
every  turn,  you  see  scores  of  yellow,  mangy,  wound- 
ed, and  mutilated  dogs  —  some  with  three  legs, 
some  minus  their  nose,  some  with  their  ears  torn 
into  fringe,  all  scored  over  with  scars — who  go 
foraging  about,  or  lie  in  the  sun  wherever  they 
please,  undisturbed  by  any  one.     At  Constanti- 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  41 

nople  the  men  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  dogs, 
and  not  the  dogs  out  of  the  way  of  the  men. 
Nay,  more :  at  Pe'ra,  and  in  the  lower  part  of  Stam- 
boul,  where  there  is  a  tramway,  I  have  seen  a  car 
stop,  and  heard  the  driver  use,  not  the  lash,  but 
soft  and  persuasive  words,  in  order  to  induce  a 
mangy  cur  to  remove  his  hind-quarters  from  the 
rail  across  which  he  lay  dozing  in  the  sun.  But 
in  the  labyrinthine  streets  on  the  slope  of  Stam- 
boul,  and,  in  fact,  in  most  of  the  streets  on  that 
side  of  the  water,  carriages,  and  much  more  tram- 
cars,  are  impossible,  so  narrow  and  so  steep  is  the 
roadway ;  and  so,  if  you  cannot  walk,  you  must 
ride  on  a  horse,  while  the  owner  of  the  horse  runs 
behind.  But  the  observer  will  prefer  to  walk, 
and,  with  the  aid  of  extra  thick  boots,  you  can 
brave  the  pitiless  pavement  and  perambulate  with 
some  ease.  Then  you  will  find  yourself  wending 
your  way  amid  crowds  of  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, ascending  and  descending,  elbowed  by  a 
throng  of  hawkers  bellowing  out  their  wares,  and 
roughly  pushed  to  the  wall  by  the  leader  of  a 
string  of  pack-horses,  which  clatter  steadily  along, 
laden  with  sacks  of  flour,  bundles  of  firewood, 
and  every  imaginable  burden.  On  each  side  are 
little  cafes,  and  money-changers,  and  water-sellers, 
who  attract  attention  by  an  hydraulic  mechanism 
which  causes  a  clapper  to  revolve  and  clink 
against  a  number  of  glasses  placed  in  a  ring 
around  it.     At  every  ten  steps  you  find  sellers  of 


42 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


grapes,  and  cakes,  and  sweets,  and  restaurants 
where  the  savory  kebabs — little  cubes  of  mutton 
interfoliated  with  bay  leaves  a  la  brochette —  are 
seen  roasting  at  the  open  window,  on  perpendicular 
spits,  before  a  fire  of  charcoal  contained  in  a  nar- 
row, upright  iron  basket.  The  Turk,  it  may  be 
remarked,  if  not  a  great  eater,  is  a  perpetual  eater, 
and  all  day  long  he  is  nibbling  something,  if  he  is 
not  smoking  or  playing  with  the  chaplet  of  beads 
which  not  only  the  Turks,  but  all  the  Levantine 
peoples,  seem  to  carry  as  a  plaything  and  a  coun- 
tenance-giver. As  for  the  shops,  in  these  streets 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  bazaars  they  go  by  quarters  ; 
in  one  quarter,  the  narrow  streets,  picturesque- 
ly arranged  with  trailing  vines  crossing  overhead 
from  side  to  side,  are  occupied  by  butcher-shops  ; 
in  other  streets  are  cobblers,  in  others  tailors,  in 
others  the  makers  of  pipe-stems  of  cherry-wood  or 
jasmine,  in  others  the  turners  of  amber,  in  oth- 
ers the  coopers.  And  all  these  industries  are 
practised  with  biblical  simplicity  and  in  the  most 
primitive  manner,  coram  popiilo  and  en  famille. 
You  see  the  father  and  the  son  working  side  by 
side  at  the  front  of  the  open  stall ;  at  the  back, 
in  the  luminous  shadow,  are  the  objects  already 
finished ;  on  the  floor,  amid  the  refuse,  a  family 
of  cats  is  playing ;  at  the  door  reclines  a  wolfish- 
looking  street  dog ;  while,  as  they  pass,  the  neigh- 
bors stop  to  talk,  and  take  their  leave  with  the 
name  of  Allah  on  their  lips.     In  every  street  the 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  43 

picture  is,  in  general  outlines,  the  same.  At  Stam- 
boul  you  feel  that  you  are  really  in  the  East,  and 
that  all  you  see  is  characteristic  of  the  East,  and 
of  the  East  unimproved  and  unexpurgated,  in  all 
its  splendor  of  color,  its  brilliant  sunlight,  its  prim- 
itiveness,  its  dirt,  and  its  perfidy.  My  experience 
showed  me  that  the  sooner  the  visitor  has  done 
with  the  few  obligatory  sights  of  Constantinople 
the  better;  for  the  ordinary  traveller  the  begin- 
ning and  the  end  of  Constantinople  are  the  streets, 
the  people,  the  life,  the  details  of  manners,  the 
general  aspect,  the  marvellous  panorama  of  the 
city  seen  from  afar. 

IV. 

It  is  not  my  intention,  in  these  pages,  to  write 
a  guide  or  vade  mectitn  for  the  visitor  to  Constan- 
tinople, or  even  to  relate  all  that  I  saw  there,  but 
rather  to  sum  up  the  impressions  which  I  re- 
ceived most  strongly,  and  the  impressions  which 
I  should  seek  to  renew  on  the  occasion  of  any 
future  visit.  To  speak. frankly,  I  found  most  of 
the  special  sights,  curiosities,  and  monuments 
mentioned  in  the  guide-books  of  very  slight  in- 
terest. This  was,  of  course,  not  the  case  with 
the  mosque  of  Saint  Sophia.  I  had  heard  and 
read  so  much  about  this  famous  monument  that 
even  when  I  had  reached  the  entrance,  one  morn- 
ing, I  hesitated  before  going  in,  and  rested  at  a 
cafe  under  the  trees  opposite,  and  smoked  a  nar- 


44  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

gileh,  in  order  to  compose  my  thoughts  and  calm 
my  nerves  before  taking  this  long-anticipated  joy. 
While  sitting  at  this  cafe',  on  a  low  rush  stool, 
with  my  cup  of  coffee  on  a  similar  stool,  and  my 
nargileh  on  the  floor,  I  saw  a  sight  which  threw 
some  lisfht  on  the  relative  cleanliness  of  the  foul 
streets  of  Constantinople,  in  spite  of  the  absence 
of  scavengers  and  drains.  The  cafd  was  under 
a  sort  of  arcade,  raised  about  three  feet  from  the 
level  of  the  square,  and  from  this  shady  vantage- 
point  I  was  watching  the  movement  of  the  place  : 
the  fruiterers  plunging  their  knives  into  the  roseate 
flesh  of  watermelons,  and  offering  for  sale  strange 
forms  of  gourds  and  colocynths ;  the  open-air 
cafe's  under  the  trees,  with  their  picturesque 
groups  of  smokers  and  talkers ;  the  barbers  oper- 
ating in  the  open  air,  and  thus  affording  the 
stranger  the  only  occasion  he  has  of  seeing  the 
cranial  conformation  of  the  Mussulman ;  while  in 
front  of  me  stood  the  white  and  silent  mosque  of 
Saint  Sophia,  with  its  dome  and  its  minarets  ris- 
ing heavily  from  amid  a  green  girdle  of  ancient 
plane-trees  and  sycamores.  My  immediate  at- 
tention had  been  attracted  for  the  moment  by  the 
picturesque  figure  of  a  young  dervish,  wearing  a 
conical  cap  of  gray  felt,  who  stood  near  the  en- 
trance of  the  mosque  and  counted  his  beads  with 
sanctimonious  air,  when,  just  in  front  of  the 
arcade  where  I  was  sitting,  I  heard  a  thud  and  a 
crash  of  pottery.     It  was  a  menial  who  had  de- 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  45 

posited  a  heap  of  refuse  in  the  gutter.  Now,  a 
donkey,  with  panniers  on  his  back,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  standing  hard  by,  spied  this  heap, 
approached  and  smelt  it,  and  picked  out  of  it 
some  rinds  of  watermelons  and  other  fragments 
of  green  stuff ;  then  came  a  street  dog,  who  found 
something  to  his  liking ;  then  followed  a  cat,  who 
also  found  something ;  next  a  flock  of  pigeons 
alighted  and  devoured  the  watermelon  seeds  ;  and 
when  the  pigeons  left  the  heap,  there  remained 
nothing  but  a  fragment  of  broken  crockery  and  a 
patch  of  moisture  on  the  ground,  which  the  sun 
dried  up  immediately.  Thus  in  less  than  five 
minutes  the  whole  heap  of  refuse,  except  the  frag- 
ment of  crockery,  which  would  become  amalga- 
mated with  the  pavement,  disappeared,  without 
the  intervention  of  brooms,  or  dust-carts,  or  any 
other  costly  applications  of  hygienic  science. 

But  it  is  time  to  return  to  Saint  Sophia.  The 
exterior  of  this  famous  mosque  is  an  absolute  de- 
ception ;  the  dome  seems  flat,  the  minarets  have 
not  the  elegance  of  the  Persian  and  Arab  minar- 
ets, and  the  mosque  itself  is  so  encumbered  with 
parasitical  buildings  —  schools,  baths,  shops,  and 
storerooms  —  that  one  cannot  distinguish  its  real 
form.  The  interior,  on  the  contrary,  is  grand,  but 
grand  by  reason  of  its  vastness,  its  proportions, 
and  its  form  and  lines  alone,  for  all  the  rest  is 
ruin  and  desecration :  tlie  mosaics  of  the  dome 
have  disappeared  beneath  a  coat  of  whitewash; 


46  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

the  mosaics  of  the  lateral  arcades  exist  only  in 
patches ;  all  the  ornamentation  and  all  the  mov- 
able splendor  of  the  church  can  scarcely  be  said 
to  exist  any  longer,  except  in  souvenir.  Ah ! 
when  we  appeal  to  the  souvenir  of  history,  and 
consider  the  Saint  Sophia  of  the  present  day 
from  that  point  of  view,  there  are  volumes  to  be 
written  about  it,  in  addition  to  the  volumes  which 
it  has  already  inspired.  On  the  bronze  entrance 
door  we  can  still  distinguish  the  trace  of  the 
Greek  cross ;  in  the  lateral  gallery  an  incised  in- 
scription marks  the  traditional  spot  where  the  Em- 
press Theodora  sat  to  worship  ;  at  the  end  of  the 
sanctuary,  beneath  the  whitewash,  we  can  follow 
vaguely  the  outline  of  a  colossal  figure  of  divine  Wis- 
dom, or  rather  holy  Wisdom  —  Agia  Sophia,  the 
patron  saint  of  the  church  ;  those  pillars  of  gigan- 
tic girth  and  those  enormous  lustral  urns  were  taken 
from  the  temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus,  from  the  tem- 
ple of  the  Sun  at  Palmyra,  and  from  the  ruins  of 
ancient  Pergamos.  And,  as  we  contemplate  these 
venerable  and  gigantic  relics  of  the  past,  memory 
carries  us  back  to  Justinian  and  his  empress,  while 
at  the  same  time  an  examination  of  the  mosque 
throws  light  upon  many  questions  which  wander- 
ings in  Spain  and  elsewhere  have  suggested. 

The  Slav  Oupravda,  v/lio  took  the  name  of  Jus- 
tinian, and  was  sole  ruler  of  the  Byzantine  Em- 
pire for  forty  years  (a.  d.  527-565),  may  have 
adopted  a  mistaken  general  policy,  as  historians 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  47 

now  maintain ;  but  there  is  one  merit  which  can- 
not be  denied  him — that  of  having  been  an  active 
patron  of  art.  Justinian  was  a  great  builder,  and 
his  chronicler  and  calumniator,  Procopius,  has  de- 
voted a  special  treatise  to  an  account  of  the  build- 
ings raised  by  order  of  the  emperor.  Happily, 
we  are  not  reduced  to  the  text  of  Procopius  alone  ; 
many  of  the  monuments  of  the  epoch  of  Justinian 
exist  still,  and  among  these  the  most  celebrated 
is  Saint  Sophia,  which,  both  in  architecture  and 
in  decoration,  was  the  t^'^o.  par  excellence  of  Byzan- 
tine art,  and  became  in  turn  a  constructive  type 
for  Persian  and  Arab  religious  architecture.  On 
the  other  hand,  in  the  history  of  Christian  art 
there  exists  no  church  of  greater  importance  than 
Saint  Sophia.  Notre  Dame  at  Paris  had  rivals, 
even  in  the  neighboring  provinces  ;  St.  Peter's  at 
Rome  is  wanting  in  originality,  and  is  Christian 
in  little  more  than  its  destination ;  St.  Sophia,  on 
the  contrary,  has  the  double  advantage  of  mark- 
ing the  evolution  of  a  new  style,  and  of  attaining 
at  once  proportions  which  have  never  been  ex- 
ceeded in  the  East. 

From  the  time  of  Constantine  there  had  exist- 
ed on  the  present  site  a  temple  in  honor  of  Agia 
Sophia,  which  had  been  twice  burned  down  when 
Justinian  resolved  to  rebuild  it  in  such  a  manner 
that  it  would  surpass  in  splendor  all  that  had 
been  reported  about  the  most  celebrated  edifices 
of  antiquity,  and  in  particular  about  the  temple 


48  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

of  Solomon.  The  richest  materials,  gold,  silver, 
ivory,  and  precious  stones,  were  employed  with 
incredible  profusion  ;  enormous  sums  were  spent, 
and  new  taxes  and  arbitrary  measures  had  to  be 
imposed  in  order  to  continue  the  works ;  further- 
more, Justinian  wrote  to  his  functionaries  and 
governors  to  send  him  materials  already  fash- 
ioned, and  the  governors  accordingly  pillaged  the 
monuments  of  pagan  antiquity.  The  praetor  Con- 
stantine  sent  from  Ephesus  eight  columns  of  verd- 
antique ;  other  columns  arrived  from  the  Troad, 
the  Cyclades,  and  Athens ;  Marcia,  a  Roman 
widow,  sent  eight  columns  of  porphyry  taken 
from  the  temple  of  the  Sun.  This  fact  explains 
the  great  diversity  of  stone  and  marble  of  all 
colors,  which  is  so  remarkable  in  this  wonderful 
church. 

The  two  chief  architects  were  Anthemius  of 
Tralles  and  Isidore  of  Miletus,  who,  it  will  be  re- 
marked, both  come  from  those  Asiatic  provinces 
where  architecture  flourished  with  so  .much  origi- 
nality in  the  fourth  and  fifth  centuries,  as  has  been 
recently  shown  by  the  explorations  of  M.  de 
Vogue  in  Syria.  M,  de  Vogiid  has  found  the  cu- 
pola and  spherical  vaultings,  the  dome  supported 
by  pendentives,  in  these  Syrian  ruins,  dating  as  far 
back  as  the  third  century.  But  the  architects  who 
constructed  these  monuments  seem  only  to  have 
reproduced  forms  used  centuries  before  in  the  an- 
tique edifices  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon.     Recent 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  49 

researches,  and  above  all  the  very  complete  stud- 
ies of  M.  Marcel  Dieulafoy,  the  excavator  of  an- 
cient Susa,  would  seem  to  show  that  Byzantine 
as  well  as  Gothic  architecture  is  to  be  traced 
back  ultimately  to  the  art  of  the  Assyrians,  the 
Medes,  and  the  Persians,  which  was  itself  in- 
fluenced by  Greek  art,  as  has  been  eloquently 
proved  by  the  recent  discoveries  made  by 
M.  Dieulafoy  at  Susa.  Whatever  may  be  the 
history  and  origin  of  the  dome  supported  by 
pendentives,  it  is  clear  that  the  architects  of 
Saint  Sophia  sought  new  inspiration  in  Asiatic 
sources,  and  we  are  almost  justified  in  regarding 
them  as  continuators  of  forgotten  masters  who 
raised  millions  of  bricks  in  vaults  and  lofty  domes 
over  the  heads  of  Sargon  and  Nebuchadnezzar. 
In  future,  it  will  not  be  permissible  to  declare 
broadly  that  the  Arabian,  the  Persian,  and  the 
Moorish  styles  are  derived  directly  from  the  By- 
zantine, 

But  did  not  Saint  Sophia  serve  as  a  tj-pe  for 
the  Mussulman  mosque  ?  Yes,  and  yet  not,  per- 
haps, so  absolutely  as  some  have  stated,  but  rath- 
er accidentally  and  by  force  of  curious  circum- 
stances. The  mosque,  as  is  well  known,  differs 
from  the  pagan  temple  in  certain  main  points, 
namely :  it  has  no  cella,  from  which  a  carefully 
concealed  divinity  communicated  with  the  wor- 
shippers through  the  intermediary  of  a  priest; 
nor  does  it  contain  any  graven  images  of  human 
4 


5° 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


form,  which  might  lead  into  idolatry  ignorant  per- 
sons gifted  with  a  too-impressionable  imagina- 
tion. Mahomet  intended  that  the  mosque  should 
be  a  place  of  meeting  accessible  unto  all  and  a 
house  of  prayer,  for  prayer  was  imposed  upon 
the  faithful  as  the  chiefest  duty  towards  God. 
The  first  religious  edifice  of  the  Arabs — who  be- 
fore Mahomet  scarcely  knew  how  to  build  at  all, 
being  by  nature  nomads  and  dwellers  in  tents — 
was  a  simple  rectangular  court  surrounded  by 
covered  galleries  or  porticoes,  the  walls  and  roofs 
of  which  were  of  wood.  In  this  court  was  a 
sanctuary ;  in  the  middle  of  the  central  nave  was 
the  niche,  or  mihrab,  in  the  direction  of  Mec.ca, 
and  a  menber,  or  pulpit ;  near  the  entrance  door 
were  high  platforms,  whence  the  priests  sum- 
moned the  faithful  to  prayer  five  times  a  day; 
the  lateral  hypostyle  porticoes  were  reserved  for 
rest  and  reflection.  In  building  these  primitive 
mosques,  the  Arabs,  probably  at  the  suggestion 
of  Byzantine  architects,  utilized  the  pillars  of  the 
pagan  temples  which  they  destroyed.  The  finest 
specimen  we  have  of  this  primitive  mosque  is  that 
of  Cordova,  a  forest  or  quincunx  of  1200  mono- 
lithic columns,  now  reduced  to  850,  which  sup- 
ported the  low  roof.  These  pillars  were  taken 
from  Roman  buildings  at  Nimes,  Narbonne,  and 
Seville,  and  from  various  temples  at  Carthage 
and  other  African  towns ;  so  true  is  it  that  the 
Moslem  was  the  thief  of  antiquity,  and  that  the 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  5 1 

materials  of  his  edifices  were  rarely  extracted  by 
him  from  the  quarry. 

But  in  this  primitive  mosque,  it  will  be  remarked 
that  the  dome  does  not  exist.  It  is  not  until  the 
fourteenth  century  that  the  dome  appears  in  Mus- 
sulman monuments,  when  Sultan  Hassan  sends 
his  architects  to  Mesopotamia,  whence  they  bring 
back  the  secret  of  the  cupola,  and  build  the  mosque 
of  Hassan  at  Cairo.  Then,  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, Mahomet  II.  enters  Saint  Sophia,  and  is  so 
struck  with  its  splendor  that  he  proclaims  that  it 
shall  be  in  future  the  model  of  all  Moslem  tem- 
ples, although  in  its  grand  lines  it  contains  the 
forms  of  the  cross — the  enemy  and  rival  of  the 
crescent.  And  so  strong  has  been  the  influence 
of  this  model  that  on  the  plans  of  all  the  fine 
mosques  of  Constantinople  and  of  Cairo  the  in- 
terior pillars  describe  the  branches  of  the  Greek 
cross.  As  for  the  court  in  front  of  the  mosques,  it 
is  simply  a  reproduction  of  the  atrium  of  the  old 
basilicas.  The  ablution  fountains  and  the  min- 
arets alone  betray  the  Mussulman  sanctuary,  and 
these  are  in  truth  very  minor  accessories.  Thus  it 
happens  that  if  the  Franks  were  to  drive  the 
Turks  out  of  Constantinople  to-morrow,  the  Chris- 
tian priests  could  at  once  celebrate  mass  in  all 
the  mosques  of  Stamboul  just  as  correctly  and 
naturally  as  they  could  in  the  church  of  Saint  So- 
phia, if  it  were  restored  to  its  original  purpose. 

In  historical  interest  the  mosque  of  Saint  So- 


52  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

phia  is  inexhaustible,  and  you  return  to  it  again 
and  again  to  receive  that  impression  of  massive 
grandeur  and  imposing  majesty  which  its  gigan- 
tic pillars  and  its  colossal  dome  convey.  But  after 
all,  it  is  not  the  ideal  mosque  of  Stamboul.  There 
are  three  others  more  perfect  exteriorly  and  in- 
teriorly, namely,  the  Suleimanieh,  the  mosque  of 
the  Sultan  Bayezid,  and  the  mosque  of  the  Sultan 
Achmet,  which  has  six  minarets.  The  latter  is  a 
model  of  elegance.  While  the  dome  of  Saint  So- 
phia rests  directly  on  the  walls  of  the  building, 
that  of  the  Sultan  Achmet's  mosque  is  raised  on 
a  sort  of  drum,  and  springs  up  majestically  in 
the  midst  of  several  minor  cupolas  and  of  its  six 
slender  minarets  encircled  by  balconies  whose 
ornamentation  has  the  fineness  and  intricacy  of 
jewellers'  work.  The  mosque  is  preceded  by  a 
courtyard,  around  which  are  columns,  with  black 
and  white  capitals  and  bronze  basements,  form- 
ing a  quadruple  cloister  or  portico.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  courtyard  is  a  beautiful  fountain,  rich 
with  arabesques,  and  covered  in  with  a  cage  of 
golden  trellis  work  to  preserve  the  purity  of  the 
lustral  water.  White,  silent,  and  scintillating  in 
the  sunlight,  the  elegant  silhouette  and  graceful 
proportions  of  the  mosque  of  Sultan  Achmet 
challenge  comparison  with  the  finest  monuments 
of  Persian  art. 

You  enter  this  mosque  through  a  bronze  door, 
having  of  course  previously  shod  your  profane 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  53 

feet  with  protecting  babouches ;  and  then  you 
are  free  to  examine  and  admire.  The  first  feature 
that  strikes  you  is  four  enormous  pillars,  which 
might  be  compared  to  four  fluted  towers,  and 
which  support  the  weight  of  the  principal  cupola. 
The  capitals  of  these  pillars  are  carved  into  the 
form  of  a  mass  of  stalactites,  a  style  of  ornament 
which  may  be  observed  in  many  fine  Persian 
monuments ;  and  half-way  up  they  are  encircled 
by  a  band  covered  with  inscriptions  in  Turkish 
characters.  The  strength  and  simplicity  of  these 
four  pillars,  which  at  once  explain  to  the  eye  the 
constructive  system  of  the  building,  give  a  strik- 
ing impression  of  robust  majesty  and  imperish- 
able stability.  Sourates,  or  verses  from  the  Koran, 
form  bands  of  running  ornament  around  the  great 
cupola,  and  the  minor  domes,  and  the  cornices. 
From  the  roof  are  suspended,  to  within  eight  or 
ten  feet  of  the  ground,  innumerable  lustres,  com- 
posed of  glass  cups  full  of  tallow,  set  in  a  circu- 
lar iron  frame,  and  decorated  with  balls  of  crystal, 
ostrich  eggs,  and  silk  tassels,  as  in  Saint  Sophia 
and  all  the  other  mosques.  The  mihrab,  which 
designates  the  direction  of  Mecca  —  the  niche 
where  rests  the  sacred  book,  the  Koran,  the  "  no- 
ble book  taken  from  a  prototype  kept  in  heaven  " 
— is  inlaid  with  lapis -lazuli,  agate,  and  jasper. 
Then  there  is  the  usual  menber,  surmounted  by 
a  conical  sound-board ;  the  mastaches,  or  plat- 
forms supported  by  colonettes,  where  the  muez- 


54  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

zins  and  other  clergy  sit.  As  in  all  the  mosques, 
the  side  aisles  are  encumbered  with  trunks  and 
bales  of  merchandise,  deposited  by  pious  Mussul- 
mans under  divine  safeguard;  and,  finally,  the 
floor  is  covered  with  fine  matting  in  summer  and 
carpets  in  winter. 

While  I  was  lost  in  wonderment  at  the  splen- 
dor of  this  mosque,  several  Moslems  came  in  to 
pray,  with  the  usual  prostrations,  and  beard-strok- 
ino",  and   yawning.     Two  or   three   women  also 
came  to  pray,  clad  in  feridjis  of  brilliantly  striped 
silks  —  rose  and  white,  azure  and  white,  yellow 
and  red  — and  they,  too,  knelt  on  the  matting, 
and  bowed  and  touched  the  ground  with  their 
brows ;  and  their  little  baby  girls,  with  their  fine 
eyes  and  white  veils  wrapped  round  their  heads, 
stood  patient  and  motionless  beside   them,  not 
being  yet  old  enough  to  pray,  or  perhaps   not 
strong  enough  on  their  legs  to  prostrate  them- 
selves without  irremediably  losing  their  balance. 
Some  of  these  little  baby  girls  seemed  as  beauti- 
ful as  fresh  flowers,  and  reminded  one  of  the  fair 
dreams  of  rosy  childhood  which  we  find  in  the 
pictures  of  the  French  painter  Diaz.     Then,  in 
odd  corners  of  the  mosque,  were  boys  learning 
the  Koran  under  the  direction  of  old  turbaned 
priests,  and  others  learning  all  alone,  squatting 
cross-legged,  with  the  sacred  ■^ook  open  before 
them  on  a  reading-stand  in  the  shape  of  an  X. 
These  queer  little  boys  produced  the  monotonous 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  55 

and  melancholy  sounds  which  alone  re-echoed  in 
the  vast  silence  of  the  mosque ;  and  in  the  im- 
mensity of  the  place,  dotted  as  they  were  here 
and  there,  near  the  mihrab  and  the  mastaches, 
they  looked  like  big  black  fungi  that  had  sprung 
up  through  the  pale  straw-colored  matting.     Hud- 
dled up  into  a  sort  of  sphere  with  a  flat  base,  these 
boys,  each  one  acting  independently,  would  rock 
themselves  rapidly  backwards  and  forwards,  while 
they  read  aloud,  in  a  sharp,  nasal  voice,  a  verse 
from  the   Koran.     Then  they  would  stop,  look 
round,  remain  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
begin  rocking  and  reading  again.     Sometimes  a 
single  voice  would  be  heard,  to  which  another 
voice  would  seem  to  respond.     Another   time, 
two  or  three  voices  would  be  heard  together,  and 
the  immense  vaults  would  receive  and  reverberate 
the  sounds,  which  composed  a  kind  of  monoto- 
nous and  shrill  music;  for  the  Koran  is  full  of 
rhythmic  prose,  similar  to  that  of  which  we  find 
specimens  in  the  Pentateuch  and  the  Psalms. 

In  all  the  mosques  the  general  aspect  of  things 
is  the  same,  so  that  there  is  no  need  to  describe 
any  of  the  others.  The  visitor,  however,  must 
not  forget  to  visit  the  courtyard  of  the  mosque  of 
Sultan  Bayezid,  and  to  buy  a  measure  of  millet 
from  the  old  Turk  who  stands  in  the  cloister,  in 
the  midst  of  a  swarm  of  beggars.  Cast  the  millet 
on  the  pavement,  and  in  a  second  you  will  see 
thousands  of  pigeons  descend  from  the  domes, 


^6  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

the  minarets,  the  roofs  and  cornices  of  the  sur- 
rounding buildings,  and  flutter  round  you  with  a 
whirlwind  of  wings,  settle  on  your  shoulder,  and 
feed  out  of  your  hand,  like  the  pigeons  of  Saint 
Mark's  at  Venice.  At  this  mosque,  which  is  near 
the  bazaars,  the  observer  will  notice  many  inter- 
esting details  of  life,  for  the  mosque  is  the  centre 
around  which  all  Moslem  life  gravitates.  Under 
the  arcades  of  the  mosque  the  homeless  sleep, 
undisturbed  by  the  police,  for  they  are  the  guests 
of  Allah ;  in  the  mosque  the  faithful  pray,  the 
women  dream,  the  s'ck  come  to  be  healed ;  around 
the  mosque  are  schools  and  baths  and  kitchens 
where  the  poor  find  food — for  in  the  East  real 
life  is  never  separated  from  religious  life. 

V. 

The  Atmeidan,  or  Hippodrome,  of  Constanti- 
nople is  little  more  than  a  bare  site,  which  memory 
and  documents  alone  can  once  more  cover  with  its 
ancient  splendor  of  monuments  and  artistic  treas- 
ures. On  this  vast  open  space  stand  almost  all 
the  relics  of  ancient  Byzantium  that  remain  above 
ground,  and  these  relics  are  three  :  the  obelisk  of 
Theodosius,  the  serpentine  column,  and  the  mural 
pyramid  of  Constantine  Porphyrogenitus,  which 
was  formerly  covered  with  bas-reliefs  and  orna- 
ments of  gilt  bronze,  and  was  so  magnificent  that 
the  historians  of  the  time  compared  it  to  that 
wonder  of   the   ancient  world,  the  Colossus   of 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  57 

Rhodes.  Now  it  is  simply  a  shapeless  pillar  of 
crumbling  stones.  The  serpentine  column,  formed 
of  three  serpents  twisted  rope-wise  into  a  spiral 
shaft,  has  lost  the  triple  head,  on  which  used  to 
rest,  if  tradition  may  be  believed,  the  golden  tri- 
pod which  the  grateful  Greeks  offered  to  Pho&bus 
Apollo,  who  had  helped  them  to  defeat  Xerxes 
at  the  battle  of  Plataea.  Although  one  may  have 
been  warned  by  the  narratives  of  travellers  that 
it  is  impossible  to  form  an  idea  of  old  Constan- 
tinople except  from  the  descriptions  of  mediaeval 
writers,  one  still  feels  violent  disappointment  at 
finding  that  the  ancient  city  has  so  completely 
disappeared.  What!  this  deserted  waste  is  all 
that  remains  of  the  Hippodrome  which  was  the 
centre  of  the  popular  life  of  New  Rome  ?  Was 
it  really  on  this  spot  that  the  greatest  events  of 
Byzantine  history  were  enacted  ?  Was  it  here,  a 
propos  of  a  question  of  charioteers,  that  Justinian 
saw  a  tempest  rise  which  might  have  overthrown 
his  power  and  his  dynasty,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
courage  of  the  pantomime  whom  he  had  made  his 
empress-wife  ?  Was  it  here  that  Justinian,  second 
of  the  name,  made  prisoner  by  his  rebellious  sub- 
jects, had  his  nose  and  ears  cut  off  ?  Was  it  here 
that  the  same  Justinian,  triumphantly  returned 
from  exile,  donned  the  purple  and  walked  over 
the  heads  of  his  vanquished  foes,  while  the  incon- 
stant mob  cried  out,  "Thou  shalt  walk  on  the 
aspic  and  on  the  basilisk  "  ?     And  where  is  the 


2 8  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS, 

Augustffion  celebrated  by  the  mediaeval  travel- 
lers  that  famous  Forum  surrounded  on  four  sides 

with  porticoes  enriched  with  statues,  the  spoils  of 
ancient  Greece?  Where  is  the  circular  Forum 
of  Constantine,  peopled  with  statues  of  pagan 
divinities?  Where  is  the  porphyry  column  on 
the  summit  of  which  Apollo,  ravished  from  his 
temple  in  Phrygian  Heliopolis,  his  head  crowned 
with  golden  rays,  consented  to  be  renamed,  and 
to  represent  the  person  of  the  Christian  founder 
of  the  city  ?  Where  is  that  imperial  palace  which 
was  a  town  of  itself,  and  from  whose  windows  the 
autocrat  could  see  his  fleets  sailing  forth  to  the  con- 
quest of  Italy,  Asia,  and  Africa,  and  the  vessels  of 
his  merchants  entering  the  Golden  Horn,  laden 
with  the  rarest  riches  of  distant  lands  ?  Where 
are  those  thousands  of  statues  that  were  brought 
from  the  East  and  from  the  West,  from  Athens 
and  from  Sicily,  from  Chaldaea  and  from  Antioch, 
from  Crete  and  from  Rhodes,  to  augment  the 
splendor  of  the  parade  of  the  Byzantine  emperor, 
who  appeared  in  the  eyes  of  men  like  a  god  upon 
the  earth  ? 

Alas  !  the  chronicler  Villehardouin  will  answer 
our  questions  only  too  completely.  When  the 
Latins  arrived  before  Constantinople,  in  1203,  he 
says  :  "  You  must  know  that  those  who  had  never 
seen  it  looked  at  Constantinople  very  much ;  for 
they  could  not  believe  that  it  was  possible  for  so 
rich  a  town  to  exist  in  all  the  world,  when  they 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  59 

saw  those  high  walls  and  those  rich  towers  which 
enclosed  it  all  around,  and  those  rich  palaces  and 
those  lofty  churches  of  which  there  were  so  many 
that  it  was  incredible,  and  the  length  and  the 
breadth  of  the  town,  which  among  all  oUier  towns 
was  sovereign.  And  know  that  there  was  not  a 
man  of  them  so  bold  that  his  flesh  did  not  shud- 
der." But  soon  the  disasters  began,  and  a  whole 
series  of  fires  destroyed  a  part  of  the  town.  "  The 
barons  of  the  army  were  sad  at  this,  and  had 
great  pity  to  see  those  fine  churches  and  rich  pal- 
aces fall  and  sink  into  ruins,  and  those  grand  com- 
mercial streets  burn  with  ardent  flames ;"  and  at 
one  time,  "there  were  more  houses  burned  than 
there  are  in  the  three  greatest  cities  of  the  king- 
dom of  France." 

It  was  still  worse  when  the  Crusaders  took  pos- 
session of  the  town,  pillaged  the  palaces,  sacked 
the  churches,  and  destroyed  this  city  of  cities,  this 
imperial  centre  of  a  brilliant  civilization.  The  Cru- 
saders did  their  work  of  devastation  so  completely 
that,  after  their  melancholy  triumph,  there  was  lit- 
tle left  for  the  nomad  Turks  to  destroy.  Constan- 
tinople was  a  city  of  ruins,  and  now  even  these 
ruins  have  disappeared  beneath  the  dust  of  ages, 
and  there  remains  of  old  Constantinople  nothing 
but  an  obelisk,  a  crumbling  pillar,  a  broken  column 
of  twisted  bronze,  and  below  the  surface  a  dry  cis- 
tern built  by  Constantine,  where  some  poor  Jews 
and  Armenians  live  like  gnomes  or  kobolds,  spin- 


6o  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

ning  SL 
vaults. 


ning  silk  in  the  subterranean  obscurity  of  its  icy 


VI. 

Travelling  is  truly  perpetual  sacrifice.  One 
cannot  see  everything,  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
can  one  describe  everything  one  sees.  The  ba- 
zaars, the  mosques,  the  Hippodrome,  the  Seraglio, 
the  Sultan's  palaces,  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Europe 
and  of  Asia,  and  all  the  other  curiosities  of  mod- 
ern Constantinople,  are  certainly  interesting :  but 
the  real  interest  of  them  is  inferior  to  the  reput- 
ed interest,  and  therefore  I  return  to  my  primi- 
tive and  final  impression,  that  the  wisest  thing 
for  the  visitor  at  Constantinople  to  do  is  to  con- 
tent himself  with  a  rapid  inspection  of  the  monu- 
ments, and  to  spend  most  of  his  time  in  wander- 
ing about  the  streets,  observing  men  and  manners, 
and  returning  again  and  again  to  the  marvellous 
panorama  of  the  ensemble  of  the  city,  seen  now 
from  the  Seraskier  tower,  now  from  the  Galata 
tower,  now  from  the  heights  of  Eyoub,  and  now 
from  ]Mount  Boulghourou,  on  the  Asiatic  side  of 
the  Bosphorus.  This  excursion  will  enable  him  to 
visit  Scutari  and  its  cemetery,  and  to  hear  the 
howling  dervishes  officiate.  As  for  the  whirling 
dervishes,  who  perform  at  Constantinople,  I  con- 
sider them  to  be  comparatively  unattractive  ;  their 
evolutions  remind  one  of  those  of  the  Parisian 
frotteiirs,  who  put  brushes  on  their  feet  in  order 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  6 1 

to  polish  the  waxed  parquet  floors.  The  turning 
dervishes  achieve  absolutely  the  same  result,  only 
they  work  barefooted. 

One  morning,  as  I  was  wending  my  way  to  the 
steamer,  I  saw  at  I'op-hand  a  cargo  of  young  Cir- 
cassian girls  landed,  under  the  charge  of  a  dealer 
in  human  flesh.  These  girls  were  clad  in  inde- 
scribable drapery ;  they  were  dirty ;  they  were 
thin  and  bony ;  and  they  did  not  seem  to  possess 
any  elements  of  beauty.  In  reply  to  my  inquiries, 
I  was  told  that  these  girls  would  be  kept  six 
months  or  so ;  washed,  combed,  anointed,  and 
fattened ;  and  that  then  they  would  be  ready  to 
enter  a  pacha's  harem.  This  information  was 
consoling,  and  in  accordance  with  the  biblical  ac- 
count of  Esther,  and  of  the  preliminary  proceed- 
ings of  Hegai,  the  king's  chamberlain,  the  keeper 
of  the  women  of  Ahasuerus,  who  had  many  maid- 
ens gathered  in  his  house,  and  who  was  expert  in 
all  preparations  for  beautifying  the  flesh.  Esther, 
it  will  be  remembered,  was  not  presented  to  the 
king  until  "  after  that  she  had  been  twelve  months, 
according  to  the  manner  of  the  women  (for  so  were 
the  days  of  their  purifications  accomplished,  to 
^Yit,  six  months  with  oil  of  myrrh,  and  six  months 
with  sweet  odors,  and  with  other  things  for  the 
purifying  [beautifying]  of  women)."  It  was  no 
small  satisfaction  to  me,  in  this  skeptical  and 
progressist  nineteenth  century,  to  find  that  these 
Circassian  young  ladies  were  about  to  be  sub- 


62  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

jected  to  processes  of  beautification  which  had 
received  the  approbation  of  such  a  respected 
authority  as  Hegai,  the  king's  chamberlain ;  and 
accordingly  I  went  on  board  the  Kadi-Keui 
steamer  in  a  good -humor,  and  with  the  feeling 
that  the  day's  sight-seeing  had  begun  auspiciously. 

At  the  village  of  Kadi-Keui,  always  with  the 
aid  of  Perikles,  I  hired  a  victoria,  drawn  by  two 
scraggy  ponies,  and  driven  by  an  eagle-faced  ruf- 
fian, clad  in  many-colored  rags  and  wearing  a  red 
fez.  And  so  I  began  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  roads  of  Asia  Minor,  for  we  were  now  no 
longer  on  the  European  continent.  The  streets 
of  Constantinople  had  hitherto  appeared  to  me 
to  have  achieved  the  sumtnum  of  foot -torturing 
badness,  but  they  are  smoothness  itself  in  com- 
parison with  the  roads  on  the  Asiatic  side  of  the 
Bosphorus,  which  seem  to  have  been  the  scene 
of  Titantic  battles  in  the  stone  age,  and  still  remain 
strewn  with  the  boulders  and  pointed  blocks  which 
the  giants  flung  at  each  other.  However,  the 
ponies  trotted  and  galloped  and  walked,  and  the 
carriage  bounded  from  boulder  to  boulder ;  and 
we  went  up  and  down,  between  gardens  and  wood- 
en chalets  with  closely  grated  windows,  through 
fertile  valleys,  across  dusty  wastes,  past  silent  vil- 
lages, until  at  last  we  reached  a  mountain -top, 
some  seven  hundred  feet  above  the  point  from 
which  we  had  started. 

On  the  summit  of  this  windy  mountain,  sitting 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  6$ 

on  low  Stools,  under  the  welcome  shade  of   a 
gnarled   old   cypress-tree,  we   rested   and   drank 
some  coffee  provided  by  an  enterprising  Turk, 
who  keeps  a  refreshment  shed  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  tourists.     Then,  having  lighted  a  cigar- 
ette, I  proceeded  to  contemplate  at  my  ease  the 
panorama  of  surpassing  magnificence  which  was 
spread  out  before  my  eyes.     To  the  left,  in  the 
valley,  the  caravan  road  to  Bagdad  wound  along 
the  solitary,  houseless  tract  like  a  colossal  yellow 
serpent,  losing  itself  amidst  the  low  hills  that  rose 
in  tiers,  one  behind  the  other,  until  they  vanished 
from  sight  in  the  blue  haze  of  the  distant  per- 
spective, or   dwindled    away   into   the   sparkling 
wavelets  of  the  Sea  of  Marmora.     I  could  have 
wished  to  see  a  caravan  trailing  along  this  fam- 
ous road  :  mules  laden  with  khoiirdjines  and  maf- 
rechs — those  carpet  sacks  in  which  the  Orientals 
stow  their  provisions  and  luggage — camels  bear- 
ing bales   of  precious   merchandise,  merchants, 
pilgrims,  drivers,  and  all  the  diverse  elements  of 
the  picturesque  procession.     Unfortunately,  it  was 
the  season  of  the  summer  heat,  and  not  the  mo- 
ment for  caravan  travelling.     There  was  no  help 
for  it,  and  so,  with  regret,  I  turned  my  eyes  from 
this  impressive  spectacle  of  the  calm  and  vast 
plains  of  Asia  Minor,  and  admired  the  smiling 
landscape  of  the  Bosphorus,  with  its  water-side 
palaces  and  hill-climbing  villages,  zigzagging  its 
way  between  the  mountains  towards  the  Black 


64  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

Sea.  Then,  finally,  I  turned  once  more,  and  be- 
hold, the  sea,  and  beyond  the  point  of  San  Stefano, 
and  then  Stamboul  with  its  mosques  and  minar- 
ets, and  Balata,  and  Phanar,  and  Pera,  and  Gala- 
ta — all  the  seven  hills  of  the  city,  embroidered 
with  mosques  and  palaces  reflected  by  the  crystal 
waters  of  the  Golden  Horn.  And  all  this  mar- 
vellous ensemble  of  Constantinople  glistened  in 
the  brilliant  sunlight,  and  the  waters  looked  like 
green  and  silver  glass,  and  the  domes  and  minar- 
ets stood  out  like  brilliant  points  in  this  colossal 
fairy  jewel. 

Descending  from  the  Boulghourou  mountain, 
we  passed  through  clumps  of  tumble-down  wood- 
en Turkish  houses  and  through  clouds  of  dust, 
until  we  entered  the  Turkish  burial-ground  at  Scu- 
tari, an  interminable  forest  of  immense  cypress- 
trees  and  tombstones  crowned  with  fezzes  and  tur- 
bans— a  most  neglected,  lugubrious,  and  yet  not 
desolate  spot ;  for  in  the  middle  of  the  cemetery 
is  a  leper-house,  on  the  borders  are  dwellings  and 
cafds,  and  through  the  centre  passes  the  high-road. 
On  this  road  we  met  a  whole  colony  of  Roume- 
lians,  who  were  emigrating,  with  all  their  goods 
and  chattels,  and  a  curious  sight  it  was.  Imag- 
ine, in  the  midst  of  this  cemetery,  with  its  endless 
perspective  of  tombstones  leaning  at  all  angles, 
and  of  cypress-trees  whose  black  foliage  glistened 
like  jet  in  the  blazing  sun,  a  bend  in  the  road ; 
and  as  we  approached  this  bend,  a  tall  peasant 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  65 

appeared,  stalking  barefoot  between  the  heads  of 
a  yoke  of  white  oxen  harnessed  to  a  low  four- 
wheeled  wagon,  under  whose  mouse-gray  awning, 
stretched  over  low  wooden  hoops,  were  huddled, 
pell-mell,  veiled  women,  babies,  calves,  crockery, 
provisions,  bird-cages,  agricultural  implements,  car- 
pets, and  miscellaneous  utensils  of  all  kinds.  And 
this  peasant,  and  this  yoke  of  white  oxen,  and 
this  primitive  wagon  and  its  varied  load,  was  fol- 
lowed by  other  peasants,  other  white  oxen,  and 
other  wagons  to  the  number  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty,  gliding  in  Indian  file,  slowly  and  steadily, 
through  the  cemetery.  These  poor  emigrants, 
who  were  leaving  their  settlements  in  order  to  es- 
cape from  the  persecution  of  the  Bulgarians, 
looked  weary  and  sad,  and  as  the  wagons  passed, 
in  the  midday  heat,  not  a  word,  not  a  sound,  rose 
from  any  of  them.  The  women  sat  motionless 
amidst  their  children  and  household  goods ;  the 
men  guided  the  oxen  by  gentle  touches  with  a 
slender  wand.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  phantom 
procession  gliding  through  a  sombre  corner  of 
dreamland. 

When  we  reached  the  extremity  of  the  ceme- 
tery, we  dismissed  our  ramshackle  carriage,  and 
entered  the  precincts  of  a  cafe',  in  front  of  which 
was  a  fountain  and  a  fine  trellis-work  arbor, 
grown  over  with  vines  and  jasmine.  Under 
this  trellis,  on  cushions  laid  on  high  benches,  we 
sat,  cross-legged,  in  the  centre  of  an  admiring 

5 


66  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

and  friendly  ring  of  mangy,  leprous,  and  flea- 
bitten  dogs,  on  whose  coats  the  vermin  visibly 
abounded.  Here  we  ordered  coffee  and  hubble- 
bubbles,  and  rubbed  elbows  with  a  lazy,  lounging, 
ra^-o-ed  set  of  young  and  old  Turks,  who  were 
smoking  their  nargilehs,  and,  like  ourselves,  wait- 
ing for  the  howling  dervishes  to  begin  their  ex- 
ercises. 

The  house  of  these  dervishes,  a  sort  of  monas- 
tery, stands  near  the  cafe,  at  the  end  of  the  main 
street  of  Scutari.  It  is  a  wooden  house,  sur- 
rounded by  a  garden  and  by  the  private  grave- 
yard of  the  dervishes.  In  front  is  a  little  court- 
yard, shaded  by  trailing  vines,  with  on  the  right 
an  old  well,  and  beside  it  a  bench,  where  we  rest- 
ed and  waited  until  the  preliminary  prayers  were 
over,  when  the  curtain  of  the  entrance  door  was 
raised,  and  we  Giaours  were  admitted  to  the  sanc- 
tuary. This  is  a  large,  square  room,  with  galleries 
on  three  sides,  and  one  of  these  galleries  is 
fenced  in  with  fine  lattice-work,  and  forms  the 
seraglio  where  the  Mohammedan  women  go  to 
see  without  being  seen.  The  remaining  galleries 
are  open  to  ordinary  spectators.  On  the  ground- 
floor,  beneath  the  galleries,  is  a  promenade,  part 
of  which  is  reserved  for  Turks  and  part  for 
Franks ;  and  this  promenade  is  separated  from 
the  rest  of  the  floor  by  a  low  balustrade,  within 
which  are  the  dervishes.  The  floor  is  smooth 
and  waxed,  and  on  it  are  strewn  sheepskin  rugs. 


CONSTANTINOPLE,  67 

At  one  end,  in  the  direction  of  Mecca,  is  a  mih- 
rab,  above  and  on  each  side  of  which  are  hung 
on  the  wall  various  emblems,  inscriptions  from 
the  Koran,  skewers,  chains,  spikes,  knives,  dag- 
gers, m.aces,  prickly  chains,  and  various  instru- 
ments of  torture,  with  which  the  dervishes  some- 
times wound  themselves  on  days  of  very  frantic 
enthusiasm.  Under  the  balustrade  of  the  galler- 
ies are  hung  large  tambourines.  The  walls  are 
of  a  warm  gray  color ;  the  ceiling  and  all  the 
woodwork  are  painted  a  pale,  aesthetic  green,  and 
picked  out  with  threads  of  cafe-aii-lait.  Through 
the  open  window  the  sun  shines  in ;  you  see  the 
vines  and  fruit-trees  waving  in  the  breeze  in  the 
garden.  The  general  aspect  of  the  room  is  gay 
and  charming,  and  above  all  it  is  delightfully 
soft  and  delicate  in  tone. 

At  the  moment  when  we  Giaours  were  admit- 
ted, the  chief  dervish  and  fifteen  other  dervishes 
were  prostrated,  with  their  heads  on  the  ground 
in  the  direction  of  the  mihrab,  and  for  nearly  half 
an  hoilr  they  continued  kneeling,  praying,  and 
bowing,  rocking  to  and  fro,  and  reciting  the  Ko- 
ran in  a  twanging,  nasal  tone.  Their  costume 
was  not  uniform.  The  chief,  the  itnan,  wore  an 
ample  black  gown  and  a  black  turban  rolled 
round  a  drab  fez,  while  his  four  acolytes  wore 
turbans  and  robes  of  different  colors — carmine, 
green,  puce,  yellow ;  the  other  dervishes  wore  a 
white  under-robe,  a  black  caftan,  and  a  black  and 


68  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

white  cap  in  the  form  of  a  turban.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  a  colorist,  the  effect  of  the  groups 
was  very  pleasing. 

After  the  prayers  were  finished,  one  of  the  aco- 
lytes, seated  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  put  his 
right  hand  to  his  cheek,  as  if  he  were  suffering 
from  excruciating  toothache,  and  howled  forth  a 
kind  of  litany,  to  which  the  dervishes,  ranged  in 
line,  responded  in  unison,  swaying  their  bodies  to 
and  fro  more  and  more  violently,  and  shouting, 
"Allah-hou!      AUah-hou !"      The    swaying    and 
howling  continued  thus  for  half  an  hour,  until  all 
the    dervishes   were    in   a   violent   perspiration. 
Then  there  was  a  pause,  and  a  fat  acolyte  in  a 
puce  robe  came  and  gave  each  dervish  a  white 
cotton   skull-cap    in    exchange   for   his    turban. 
Then  the  man  with  the  toothache  began  to  howl 
the  litany  once  more,  and  the  dervishes  started  a 
series  of  more  violent  gymnastic  exercises.    They 
stood  up  in  a  row,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  swayed 
their  bodies  towards  the  ground,  then  backwards, 
then  to  the  right  hand  and  then  to  the  left,  their 
heads  swinging  loosely,  their  eyes  closed  for  the 
most  part.     This   exercise   in   four  movements 
grew  more  and  more  rapid  as  the  ecstasy  of  the 
dervishes  became  more  complete  ;  the  floor  shook 
with  the  dull  thud  of  their  heels,  as  they  executed 
all  together  the  backward  swing;  from  time  to 
time,  one  of  the  spectators,  hypnotized   by  the 
sound  and  the  rhythmic  movement,  stepped  into 


CONSTANTINOPLE.  69 

the  enclosure  and  joined  the  ranks,  and  soon  the 
incessant  cry  of  "  Allah-hou !"  developed  into  a 
furious  roar,  exactly  like  the  roaring  of  a  cageful 
of  hungry  lions.  During  a  whole  hour  these  der- 
vishes swayed  and  roared,  producing  sounds  such 
as  no  other  human  lungs  could  produce,  lurching 
and  swinging  their  bodies  in  unison,  till  their  thin 
faces  became  livid  with  ecstasy  and  sweat.  The 
noise  was  literally  terrifying;  one  expected  the 
whole  room  to  fall  in  under  this  horrible  clamor, 
as  the  walls  of  Jericho  fell  at  the  sound  of  Israel's 
trumpets.  The  faces  of  the  dervishes  grew  con- 
vulsed, epileptic,  illuminated  wdth  strange  smiles. 
An  odor  of  perspiration,  reminding  one  of  the 
odor  of  a  menagerie,  filled  the  room.  And  mean- 
while the  iman,  with  his  delicate,  ascetic  face, 
remained  calm  and  impassible,  his  lips  moving  in 
silent  prayer,  his  hands  encouraging  the  enthu- 
siasts with  pious  gestures.  At  the  end  of  an  hour's 
uninterrupted  howling  and  gymnastics,  the  excite- 
ment of  the  dervishes  was  at  its  height.  Every 
moment  you  expected  to  see  one  fall  exhausted. 
But  no ;  they  continued  to  quicken  their  move- 
ments as  their  cries  became  hoarser  and  more  in- 
articulate. Then  children  were  brought  in  and 
laid  on  the  floor,  three  or  four  at  a  time,  side  by 
side,  and  the  iman  walked  over  them.  Then 
grown  men  threw  themselves  down  on  the  floor, 
and  the  iman  v/alked  over  them ;  and  they  arose 
and  departed  joyously,  believing  that  this  salutary 


70  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

imposition  of  feet  would  cure  them  of  their  ills. 
After  that,  babes  were  carried  in,  and  the  iman 
walked  over  their  frail  bodies,  supported  this  time 
by  two  of  his  acolytes,  in  order  to  render  the  press- 
ure light.  Finally,  at  a  sign  from  the  iman,  the 
dervishes  ceased  howling  and  swaying,  and  began 
to  wipe  their  perspiring  faces,  while  a  final  prayer 
was  recited.  Then  all  walked  calmly  to  their 
rooms  in  the  monastery,  and  the  ceremony  was 
over.  I  never  saw  a  spectacle  more  savage, strange, 
and  exciting,  and  I  never  saw  faces  more  calm, 
dignified,  and  even  majestically  beautiful,  than 
the  faces  of  some  of  these  howling  dervishes  of 
Scutari. 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  HOILAND. 

To  those  of  patient  temperament  who  can  travel 
happily  without  the  aid  of  express  trains  and  sleep- 
ing-cars, I  would  recommend  the  approach  to  Hol- 
land and  Belgium  by  a  rather  roundabout  and 
unfrequented  route  via  Lille,    I  am  supposing,  of 
course,  that  our  traveller  is  starting  from  Paris. 
The  advantage  of  this  route  is  that  it  enables  you 
to  visit  Lille  and  Ostend,  and  to  traverse  a  curious 
transitional  country  which  is  no  longer  French 
and  not  yet  Dutch — a  country  where  the  natives 
talk  ^patois  of  their  own,  drink  a  peculiar  kind 
of  sourish  beer,  and  indulge  in  formidable  house- 
cleaning  and  floor-scrubbing  on  Saturdays.     For 
that  matter  there  is  no  absolute  necessity  of  jus- 
tifying the  choice  of  this  route  by  demonstrating 
that  it  has  any  advantages  whatever,     I  chose  it 
simply  because  I  wished  to  see  the  museum  of 
Lille,  and  so  one  fine  August  morning  I  left  Paris 
with  a  ticket  for  that  town. 

From  Paris  to  Arras  you  pass  through  an  un- 
dulating agricultural  country  of  no  particular  in- 
terest.    Arras,  with  its  fortifications  a  la  Vauban 


72  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

suggests  memories  of  old  battle  pictTires  of  the 
days  of  Louis  XIV.     Towards  Douai  the  wind- 
mills begin  to  appear,  and  the  vast  plain  of  Lille 
is  thickly  studded  with   black   mills    and   their 
whirling,  dingy  red  sails.     Lille  is  a  very  large 
and  prosperous  manufacturing  town,  a  sort   of 
French  Manchester,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
the  Exchange— a  brick-and-stone  structure  rich 
in  caryatides,  medallions,and  garlands,  begun  un- 
der the  Spanish  domination  in  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth   century  —  it   boasts   no   monument 
that  imperiously  requires  to  be  visited.     What  a 
blessing  it  is  to  be  free  to  ramble  about  a  town 
that  has  no  sights,  and  to  be  able  to  loaf  and  to 
invite  one's  soul  without  feeling  the  Baedeker 
dancing  in  one's  pocket  and  pulling  one  up  short 
at  every  ten  steps  to  explain  the  interest  of  unin- 
teresting buildings  !     How  sharp  are  one's  impres- 
sions of  local  details,  of  the  shape  of  the  curi- 
ous long  wagons  that  clatter  along  the  streets  of 
Lille,  of  the  sound  of  the  tramway  signals,  of  the 
fine  old  doorways  and  iron  gates  that  adorn  many 
of  the  houses,  of  the  rarity  of  cafes  and  the  cor- 
responding multiplicity  of  esta77Wiets  and   little 
beer-shops  full  of  heavy  Flemish  boors  such  as 
Teniers  painted,  how  novel  the  walks  along  the 
Deule  river  and  along  the  canals  which  skirt  the 
town  —  canals  filled  with  sluggish  black  water, 
crossed  by   quaint  bridges,  and   crowded    with 
heavy  barges  with  dirty  red  or  dun-colored  sails. 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   HOLLAND.  73 

One  may  almost  imagine  one's  self  already  in 
Holland,  especially  when  one  hears  the  Lillois 
speaking  their  obscure  Flemish  dialect. 

After  a  stroll  through  the  town,  the  thing  to 
do  is  to  make  straight  for  the  picture-galleries 
in  the  Mairie.     The  Musee  de  Peinture  of  Lille 
is  certainly  the  richest  public  collection  in  France 
after  those  of  Paris.     The  Flemish  and  Dutch 
schools  are  represented  most  brilliantly  by  eight 
large  compositions  by  Rubens  and  two  fine  por- 
traits by  Van  Dyck,  to  say  nothing  of  Jordaens 
and  Teniers.     The  pictures  of  the  modern  French 
school   are   alone  worth  going  to  Lille  to    see, 
notably   Courbet's   famous  "Apr^s-dinee  ^   Or- 
nans  "  and  Delacroix's  "  Medea  killing  her  chil- 
dren," a  splendid  painting,  as  brilliant  in  color  as 
the  day  it  left  the  studio.    Unfortunately,  the  same 
cannot  be  said  of  the  Courbet,  which  is  growing 
very  dark,  owing  to  the  working  out  of  the  bitumen 
largely  employed  by  that  artist  in  his  figure-sub- 
jects.    Then  there  is  a  scene  in  the  forest  of 
Fontainebleau  by  Troyon;    two  of  Carolus  Du- 
ran's  finest  works,  "  L' Assassine  "  and  "  La  Dame 
au  Chien  ;"  Jules  Breton's  "  Plantation  d'un  Cal- 
vaire,"  representing  a   numerous  procession   of 
clergy  and  villagers  carrying  the  image  of  Christ 
out  of  the  church  towards  the  wooden  cross  that 
is  awaiting  it  in  the  churchyard,  beyond  which  we 
see  in  the  background  the  red-tiled  roofs  of  the 
village  ;  Paul  Baudry  s  "  Supplice  d'une  Vestale ;" 


74  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

J.  F.  Millet's  "La  Becquee,"  a  delicious  picture, 
representing  a  peasant  mother  feeding  three  little 
rosy-cheeked  children,  sitting  in  a  row  on  a  door- 
sill.  Among  the  pictures  of  the  old  French 
school  there  are  important  works  by  Greuze, 
Prud'hon,  and  Arnold  de  Vuez,  a  native  artist, 
whose  works  are  to  be  seen  only  at  Lille ;  and  a 
number  of  curious  historical  portraits  by  Boilly, 
including  his  "  Triumph  of  Marat."  But,  besides 
its  nine  hundred  pictures,  many  of  them  of  the 
very  first  importance,  the  museum  of  Lille  pos- 
sesses an  incomparable  treasure  in  the  Wicar 
collection  of  drawings  of  the  ancient  and  modern 
masters,  comprising  more  than  1400  specimens, 
mostly  by  the  Italian  masters,  and  including 
sixty-eight  drawings  of  Raphael,  one  of  which  is 
a  study  for  the  "  School  of  Athens."  Among  the 
French  work  I  recommend  to  the  visitor's  atten- 
tion the  excessively  rare  drawings  by  Boilly,  some 
exquisite  female  heads  by  J.  B.  Augustin,  the 
drawing  by  Decamps,  representing  a  man  hung, 
and  the  drawings  by  Corot  and  Millet.  But  the 
pearl  of  the  Wicar  gallery  is  the  bust  of  a  girl  of 
sixteen  or  seventeen  years  of  age  executed  in 
colored  wax,  a  little  less  than  life  size,  a  marvel 
of  delicate  realism,  and,  in  expression,  the  very 
ideal  of  virgin  chastity.  Fac-simile  reproductions 
of  varying  merit  have  recently  rendered  this 
beautiful  work  accessible  to  quite  modest  purses, 
but  the  extreme  delicacy  and  mysterious  charm 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  75 

of  the  original  are  as  much  beyond  the  reach  of 
imitation  as  the  smiling  face  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci's  "Joconde,"  the  more  so  as  this  bust  has 
two  or  even  three  different  expressions  according 
to  the  angle  at  which  it  is  viewed.  The  front 
view  is  that  of  a  very  young  and  very  chaste 
face,  full  of  melancholy  and  resignation.  The 
profile,  on  the  other  hand,  is  gay  and  almost  smil- 
ing. The  profit  perdu,  again,  with  the  fine  roll- 
ing hair,  the  strong  modelling  of  the  nape  of  the 
neck  and  of  the  ears,  is  very  firm  and  superb, 
and  even  a  little  sauvage  in  the  French  sense  of 
the  word.  This  mobility  of  expression  cannot 
fail  to  strike  the  spectator ;  it  is  a  quality  that 
one  cannot  analyze,  and  it  is,  I  imagine,  a  power- 
ful element  in  the  power  of  fascination  which 
this  charming  portrait  exercises  over  all  who 
have  ever  seen  it.  The  wax  bust  of  Lille  has  its 
cidte  and  its  fervent  adorers  in  both  hemispheres. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that  nothing  is  known 
about  the  origin  of  this  bust.  Wicar,  the  found- 
er of  the  Lille  Museum,  made  no  special  mention 
of  it  in  his  will  and  left  no  note  as  to  the  way  in 
which  it  came  into  his  possession.  In  vain  the 
critics  have  asked  when  and  by  whom  the  work 
was  made  ?  Its  attribution  to  Raphael  is  entire- 
ly groundless ;  equally  untenable  is  the  hypoth- 
esis that  the  bust  is  a  miraculously  preserved 
specimen  of  Greek  art  of  the  time  of  Pericles. 
The  most  probable  theory  is  that  of  M.  Gonse, 


^6  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

who  holds  the  bust  to  be  of  Florentine  origin, 
and  either  by  the  famous  ceroplastic  artist  Orsino 
Benintendi  or  by  Verrocchio,  at  any  rate  a  work 
of  the  fifteenth  century. 

With  the  charming  vision  of  the  wax  virgin 
head  fresh  and  radiant  in  my  mind  I  left  Lille 
and  resumed  my  journey  towards  the  Low  Coun- 
tries, as  old-fashioned  folks  used  to  say.  The 
route  from  Lille  to  Ostend  was  rather  wearisome ; 
the  train  stopped  almost  every  five  minutes ;  still 
for  some  time  I  took  an  interest  in  the  numerous 
canals  and  windmills,  and  in  the  gradual  change 
of  the  vegetation,  which  becomes  of  a  richer  and 
darker  green  as  the  train  proceeds.  At  Roubaix 
you  are  struck  by  the  fact  that  all  the  houses 
have  gambrel  roofs— that  is  to  say,  roofs  whose 
slope  is  broken  in  the  middle  and  thence  descends 
almost  perpendicularly.  The  whole  town,  with 
its  deep-red  brick-and-tile  structures,  looks  very 
charming,  with  the  dark -green  background  of 
fields  and  trees  illuminated  by  a  golden  sunset. 
At  Mouscron,  the  frontier  station,  you  can  make 
comparative  studies  of  languages  by  deciphering 
the  polyglot  inscriptions  painted  on  the  w^alls. 
At  Courtrai  you  may  remark  the  increasing  use 
of  dogs  as  beasts  of  draught,  and  then  go  to  sleep 
until  you  reach  Ostend,  for  there  is  absolutely 
nothing  to  see  but  cornfields,  patches  of  beet- 
root, pasture  land,  bleaching- grounds,  gambrel 
roofs,  and  an  occasional  windmill.    The  country  is 


IMPRESSIONS    OF    HOLLAND.  77 

flat  beyond  all  conception.     In  the  whole  distance 
from  Paris  to  Ostend  there  is  not  a  single  tunnel. 

Ostend  I  found  to  be  a  fairly  civilized  and  in- 
viting place,  peculiarly  favorable  to  inactivity  of 
all  kinds.  The  town  is  amusing  and  full  of  shops, 
the  sand-beach  immense,  and  the  bathing  excel- 
lent. Apart  from  the  sea-bathing,  the  distractions 
of  Ostend  are  promenading  on  the  splendid  es- 
planade of  the  Digue  de  la  Mer  from  early  morn- 
ing until  late  at  night ;  fishing  with  nets  on  the 
estacade,  or  pier — little  square  nets  suspended 
from  poles  fixed  at  an  angle  to  the  pier,  and  wound 
up  and  down  to  and  from  the  water  by  means  of 
a  little  windlass ;  regattas ;  an  occasional  horse- 
race ;  fireworks  ;  and  the  innumerable  distractions 
offered  by  the  Kursaal,  which  consist  of  instru- 
mental concerts  at  least  twice  a  day,  an  uncere- 
monious and  very  jolly  dance  every  evening, 
reading-rooms,  music-rooms,  a  restaurant,  a  cafe, 
billiard -rooms,  and  interminable  lounging  and 
gossiping  and  gazing  at  the  sea.  With  sunshine, 
agreeable  company,  good  music,  a  good  cigar,  a 
comfortable  chair,  a  good  cup  of  coffee  before 
him  on  a  neat  little  table,  the  spectacle  of  his 
fellow-loungers,  and  beyond  them  of  the  sands 
and  the  ocean,  what  more  can  a  holiday  seeker 
desire  ? 

I  felt  so  relatively  happy  at  Ostend  that  I 
made  no  haste  to  continue  my  journey,  and  stayed 
there   several  days,  sunning  myself  and  noting 


>jS  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

the  peculiarities  of  holiday-making  humanity, 
Ostend  is  much  frequented  by  Germans  of  the 
less  agreeable  kind— fat,  blonde,  coarse  German 
men  with  tow-colored  hair  parted  behind,  obtru- 
sive, clumsy  Germans  who  wear  gold  spectacles 
and  a  cross  expression,  and  walk  about,  with  the 
Colog7ie  Gazette  in  their  hands,  emitting  guttural 
cries  and  rumblings  which  corrugate  the  receptive 
tympanum  and  irritate  the  nerves.  There  is  also 
a  fair  sprinkling  of  English,  the  men  swaggering 
in  white  flannel  trousers,  and  admiring  the  pretty 
ladies  with  the  deprecatory  and  apologetic  inflec- 
tions of  voice  peculiar  to  the  race,  rarely  enthu- 
siastically declaring  a  girl  to  be  positively  nice, 
but  qualifying  their  praise  by  an  adverb  "  rather 
a  nice  girl."  Belgians,  of  course,  abound,  savez- 
vous,  and  there  is  the  usual  contingent  of  cosmo- 
politan adventurers,  gamblers,  titled  financiers, 
male  phenomena  in  knickerbockers,  lonely  ladies 
accompanied  by  shoA\y  poodles  most  useful  for 
breaking  the  ice  and  creating  pretexts  for  conver- 
sation, and  eccentric  characters  whom  it  would 
require  a  whole  chapter  to  enumerate,  such  as  a 
worthy  citizen  of  Munich  who  was  so  anxious  to 
make  the  most  of  his  holiday,  and  so  eager  to  get 
out  of  doors  in  the  morning,  that  he  used  to 
comb  his  beard  as  he  walked  along  the  esplanade, 
his  face  still  shining  with  soap. 

But  enough  of  this  frivolous  sea-side  obsen^a- 
tion.     Ostend   is   delightful.     I    am   bent   upon 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  79 

pleasure.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  hurry, 
and  yet,  since  I  have  set  out  with  the  purpose  of 
visiting  Holland,  it  may  be  well  to  begin  to  exe- 
cute my  project.  Such  were  my  reflections  one 
morning  as  I  called  for  a  railway  guide  and  be- 
gan to  study  maps  with  a  view  to  finding  out 
the  whereabouts  of  Holland.  Geographical  igno- 
rance, I  have  remarked,  greatly  enhances  the 
pleasure  of  travelling;  it  reserves  innumerable 
surprises  for  the  wanderer  and  conduces  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  extreme  liberty  and  boundless  seren- 
ity. The  traveller  whose  geographical  knowledge 
is  vague  forms  general  projects  but  not  fixed 
plans,  and  consequently  he  is  never  the  slave  of 
an  itinerary ;  he  is  always  free  to  take  advantage 
of  opportunities  and  to  yield  to  caprices ;  his 
projects  are  so  very  elastic  that  they  cannot  be 
thwarted ;  he  has  no  responsibility,  no  cares,  no 
anxiety  to  ruffle  his  mind  ;  he  is  simply  going  to 
a  country  whose  name  summons  up  in  his  mind, 
not  topographical  facts  or  distinct  notions  of 
longitude,  latitude,  boundaries,  and  frontiers,  but 
merely  notions  of  an  accidental  literary  or  artis- 
tic nature.  When  I  determined  to  make  a  trip 
through  Holland,  and  when  by  dint  of  deep  study 
of  time  -  tables  I  finally  discovered  the  way  to 
reach  that  country,  one  of  the  thoughts  upper- 
most in  my  mind  was  the  prospect  of  seeing  in- 
numerable windmills.  In  all  the  countries  I  had 
hitherto  visited  windmills  are  no  longer  held  in 


8o  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

hifjh  esteem.  In  France  the  few  windmills  that 
still  exist  look  like  colossal  wounded  birds  beat- 
ing the  ground  sadly  with  their  wings.  They  no 
longer  enjoy  the  confidence  of  opulent  and  influ- 
ential millers,  and  the  corn  that  they  grind  can 
only  be  a  dark-colored  inferior  grain,  destined  to 
be  eaten  by  the  poor  and  the  unfortunate.  Their 
glory  has  departed ;  they  are  no  longer  triumph- 
ant, as  they  were  when  they  first  arrived  with  the 
Crusaders — at  least,  so  says  the  legend — from  the 
East,  the  country  of  all  inventions ;  but  still  they 
seem  to  have  something  human  about  them,  all 
fallen  into  dishonor  as  they  are.  A  windmill  al- 
ways has  its  individuality  and  its  peculiar  aspect. 
See  how  constantly  the  Dutch  painters  make  one 
of  them  to  animate  their  landscapes.  In  the  im- 
mense battle-pieces  of  Van  der  Meulen  these 
wooden-winged  giants  seem  to  smile  at  those 
heroic  combats,  as  it  were  at  the  struggles  of  pig- 
mies; in  Ruysdael's  sunny  solitudes  the  windmill 
often  appears ;  and  Hobbema  places  its  eccen- 
tric contour  in  the  golden  dust  of  his  woodland 
roads.  Among  the  moderns,  Jongkind,  to  whom 
the  French  impressionist  school  of  painting  owes 
so  much,  excels  in  planting  the  enormous  arms  of 
a  windmill  against  the  pale  sky  of  his  fantastic 
landscapes.  The  black  or  red  sails  turn  dismal- 
ly ;  the  roof  is  torn  and  rent  by  the  angry  winds ; 
the  staircase  is  worn  out  by  the  use  of  ages  ;  the 
giant  groans  with  the  groans  of  the  vanquished. 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  8 1 

and  the  hour  is  fast  approaching  when  its  death- 
rattle  will  be  smothered  by  the  roar  of  machinery, 
and  its  ruined  carcase  delivered  up  to  utilitarian 
flames.  But  in  presence  of  the  new  steam- 
mills  the  painter's  brush  falls  from  his  fingers  in 
disgust,  while  the  image  of  the  old  windmill  will 
live  forever  in  the  works  of  the  great  masters, 
and  the  artists  will  forever  lament  the  captive 
flight  of  its  wings  in  the  serenity  of  a  broad 
horizon. 

Happily,  in  Holland  the  windmill  still  holds  its 
position  in  the  landscape  and  in  the  industry  of  the 
country ;  it  stands  out  against  the  horizon  tri- 
umphantly, like  a  brilliant  star,  or,  as  at  Rotter- 
dam and  Amsterdam,  towers  up  on  the  top  of  a 
huge  brick  pediment,  in  the  very  midst  of  the 
town.  The  windmills  and  the  canals  are  still  the 
two  chief  characteristics  of  Dutch  landscape. 

The  first  Dutch  town  I  visited  was  Rotterdam. 
Nowadays,  thanks  to  railways  and  modern  im- 
provements, the  approach  to  nearly  all  towns  is 
spoiled.  You  enter  Rotterdam  on  a  higher  level 
than  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  amid  the  usual 
maze  of  rail  tracks,  stacks  of  coal,  and  sooty,  ser- 
pentine water-hose.  The  station  and  the  people 
about  it  look  modern  and  dirty  and  common- 
place. The  only  thing  that  strikes  and  makes 
one  feel  that  one  is  travelling  in  a  foreign  coun- 
try are  the  inscriptions  and  advertisements  writ- 
ten in  that  queer  Dutch  language,  that  seefns 
6 


82  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

now  a  corruption  of  English,  and  now  of  German 
— a  language  which  one  is  constantly  on  the 
point  of  understanding,  but  without  ever  quite 
achieving  that  happy  result.  Once  outside  the 
station  the  charm  begins.  First  of  all  there  is 
the  triumphant  and  monumental  windmill  in  the 
centre  of  the  town,  and  then,  wherever  you  turn, 
you  find  yourself  in  a  labyrinth  of  canals,  crowd- 
ed with  ships  and  boats  of  all  kinds,  bordered 
with  trees  and  boulevards  lined  with  lofty  houses. 
The  city  is  different  from  anything  that  can  be 
seen  elsewhere  in  Europe.  It  is  a  combination 
of  streets,  quays,  canals,  and  bridges,  so  compli- 
cated that  you  can  hardly  feel  sure  whether  it  is 
a  dockyard  or  a  town,  whether  there  is  more  land 
than  water,  and  more  ships  than  houses  ;  for  each 
canal  is  crowded  with  ships  of  all  sizes  except  in 
the  middle,  where  there  remains  a  dark-green 
channel,  by  which  the  boats  pass  in  and  out. 
You  are  moving  along  with  the  tranquil  crowd 
of  Dutchmen,  with  their  serious  air  and  their 
broad,  yellow  faces — but  faces  of  a  yellow  such 
as  you  do  not  see  elsewhere,  the  yellow  of  Par- 
mesan cheese — with  their  blonde,  reddish,  or  yel- 
lowish hair ;  some  of  them  beardless,  others  with 
a  fringe  of  hair  around  their  faces,  such  as  the 
English  call  a  Newgate  frill ;  and  among  them 
women,  with  equally  yellow  faces,  long  teeth, 
broad  haunches,  and  formless  bodies,  by  no 
means   reminding   one    of    the   robust    beauties 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  83 

which  Rubens  painted.  The  men  in  this  crowd 
are  neither  well-looking  nor  stalwart,  but  small 
and  lean  ;  as  for  the  women,  they  are  almost  in- 
variably very  plain,  and  not  always  so  clean  and 
tidy  as  tradition  reports.  Suddenly  there  is  a 
halt ;  the  crowd  thickens,  a  balance-bridge  rises 
in  the  air,  a  ship  or  barge  glides  past ;  the  toll- 
taker  swings  a  wooden  shoe,  attached  to  a  rod 
and  line,  and  angles  for  the  toll  money;  the 
bridge  falls  into  position  again,  and  the  crowds 
and  the  carts  pass  on,  calmly,  seriously,  as  if  they 
were  trying  to  show  the  observant  stranger  how 
good  they  can  be.  Yet  the  streets  of  Rotterdam 
are  full  of  animation.  Tramways  run  in  every 
direction,  and  there  is  a  constant  tinkling  of  their 
bells  to  warn  the  innumerable  carts  to  clear  the 
track.  But  all  the  movement  is  commercial ; 
you  see  very  few  carriages,  no  display  of  ele- 
gance, and  very  few  showy  shops.  In  fact,  the 
vast  majority  of  the  shops  in  the  streets  of  Rot- 
terdam are  tobacco  and  cigar  shops,  silversmiths, 
and  provision  stores.  The  profusion  of  shops 
for  the  sale  of  eatables  and  household  wares  is 
extraordinary.  Evidently  it  is  more  profitable  in 
Rotterdam  to  appeal  to  the  palate  than  to  the 
eye. 

With  all  their  movement  there  is  a  singular 
calm  reigning  in  the  streets  of  Rotterdam.  The 
faces  of  the  passers-by  are  stolid ;  there  is  no 
chattering,  no  gesticulating.     The  population  is 


84  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

imperturbably  good.  I  was  constantly  struck  by 
this  feature  of  the  Dutch  wherever  I  went ;  they 
are  preternaturally  tranquil.  At  Rotterdam,  it 
may  be  argued,  the  people  are  occupied  with  their 
business,  and  have  no  time  to  be  gay  and  noisy. 
But  at  their  holiday  resorts  they  are  equally  quiet 
One  Sunday  afternoon  I  went  down  to  Schevening- 
en,  the  famous  seaside  resort,  near  the  Hague, 
and  I  was  utterly  astounded  at  the  bearing  of  the 
crowd  of  holiday-seekers.  I  could  hardly  help 
thinking  that  the  whole  thing  must  be  a  toy,  and 
that  the  people  were  playing  at  being  good.  The 
hotels  on  the  top  of  the  sand-dunes,  the  neat, 
brick-paved,  winding  footpath  that  runs  the  whole 
length  of  the  upper  part  of  the  beach,  the  villas, 
the  casino,  the  village  ;  the  church,  with  its  clock- 
dial  painted  red  and  blue,  with  the  hours  picked 
out  in  white  ;  the  little  canvas  bathing-machines, 
brilliant  with  new  paint;  the  little  tents  on  the 
beach,  the  fishing  boats,  all  seemed  to  accord 
with  this  idea,  they  were  so  neat  and  proper. 
When  we  arrived,  all  the  people  were  out  on  the 
beach ;  the  Sunday  holiday-makers,  too,  had  ar- 
rived ;  and  yet  the  tranquillity,  the  stillness,  the 
absence  of  the  sounds  of  gayety,  or,  indeed,  of 
any  human  sounds,  were  so  marked  that  it  made 
one  feel  quite  uneasy.  You  met  groups  walking 
quietly ;  here  and  there  were  groups  sitting  quiet- 
ly and  talking  quietly ;  and  quiet  smiles  pervaded 
at  rare  intervals  their  buttery  physiognomies.     I 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND,  85 

presume  these  people  were  enjoying  themselves 
in  their  own  quiet  way.  But  how  unlike  a  Latin 
crowd  at  the  seaside  ! 

At  Scheveningen  I  saw  no  more  style,  no  more 
elegance,  no  more  coquetry  than  at  Rotterdam. 
Very  few  of  the  Dutch  women  wore  their  quaint 
native  head-dress,  and  these  few  had  surmounted 
it  by  horrible  Parisian  bonnets.  As  for  their 
dress,  it  was  horrible.  Their  hips  were  extrava- 
gantly bulged  out  with  skirts,  and  their  general 
appearance  was  painful  to  eyes  heedful  of  grace 
of  line.  Once  for  all,  I  may  say  that,  generally 
speaking,  I  found  the  Dutch  women  uncomely, 
the  children  unpleasing,  and  the  men  ugly,  coarse, 
and  unsympathetic.  Dutch  cleanliness  is  proverb- 
ial, I  know;  but,  nevertheless,  the  Dutch  are 
not  a  well-washed  nation.  In  all  their  towns  I 
found  but  poor  washing  appliances  and  a  sad 
absence  of  bath-houses. 

But  let  us  leave  the  Dutch  people,  with  their 
austere  airs  and  their  dismal  black  costume,  and 
talk  rather  about  their  country,  the  most  curious, 
the  most  charming,  and  the  x^o's,^.  far-away  coun- 
try one  can  find  without  going  outside  of  Europe. 
What  struck  me  most  in  the  country  itself  were 
the  color  and  the  light  and  shade.  It  has  been 
said  that  if  all  the  visible  testimonies  of  the  ex- 
istence of  Holland  in  the  last  two  centuries  had 
disappeared,  except  the  work  of  the  Dutch  paint- 
ers, we  should  be  able  to  form  an  idea  of  the 


86  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

whole  country  and  of  its  life  and  manners  in  its 
pictures ;  the  towns,  the  country,  the  ports,  the 
canals,  the  markets,  the  shops,  the  costumes,  the 
arms,  the  household  utensils,  the  food,  the  pleas- 
ures, the  linen,  the  religious  beliefs,  all  the  cus- 
toms, manners,  qualities,  and  defects  of  the  peo- 
ple are  expressed  in  its  painting.  And  through 
seeing  specimens  of  this  painting  in  the  museums 
of  the  world  one  becomes  so  familiar  with  every 
detail  of  Dutch  life  and  landscape  that  when  one 
does  visit  the  country  and  sees  the  real  thing, 
one  is  tempted  to  '"emark,  naively,  "  How  like  a 
Dutch  picture  !"  But  none  of  these  pictures,  ex- 
cellent and  truthful  though  they  are,  can  give  a 
thoroughly  adequate  idea  of  the  color  and  the 
effects  of  light  and  shade  one  sees  everywhere  in 
Holland.  To  see  and  appreciate  that  you  must 
visit  the  country  itself.  You  must  travel  through 
miles  and  miles  of  terrestrial  platitude,  where  the 
horizon  has  no  accidents  except  a  windmill  or  a 
clump  of  trees ;  where  the  cottages  are  deep  red, 
the  meadows  deep  green,  the  sky  gray-blue,  cap- 
able of  changing  almost  at  any  moment  into  the 
most  curious  shades  of  black-gray  and  burnished 
copper,  torn  up  and  shredded  and  twisted  as  if 
some  aerial  giant  had  amused  himself  by  combing 
the  clouds  into  a  tangle.  And  these  dark-green 
meadows  are  intersected  by  innumerable  little 
canals  filled  with  black  water,  and  over  the  canals 
are  black  bridges  and  black  gates,  and  in   the 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND,  87 

meadows  are  black  cattle  ;  in  the  distance  the  in- 
evitable but  welcome  windmill  has  black  sails, 
and  even  the  rows  of  willows  and  poplars  have  a 
black  tinge  in  their  green.  And  over  this  coun- 
try the  sun  shines  blazingly  in  high  summer-time, 
and,  especially  in  the  late  afternoon,  it  sets  off 
vast  spaces  of  golden  light  against  other  spaces 
of  that  black,  intense,  bituminous  shadow  that 
you  see  in  the  paintings  of  the  Dutch  school. 

Then  when  you  come  into  the  town  you  find 
rows  of  deep-red  brick  houses,  with  tile  roofs  of  ^ 
all  shades  from  black  up  to  scarlet,  with  gables  of 
all  imaginable  shapes,  and  with  an  inclination 
over  the  street  at  any  angle  except  the  angle  of 
the  house  next  door.  To  look  along  the  facade 
of  a  quay  at  Rotterdam,  for  instance,  you  might 
almost  think  that  the  city  had  been  disturbed 
by  an  earthquake,  so  curiously  and  irregularly  do 
the  houses  lean  outwards.  The  front  doors  are 
brilliant  Avith  brass  name-plates  and  fittings  ;  the 
sash  window^s  are  painted  white  and  dressed  with 
white  blinds,  white  curtains,  flowers  and  plants 
in  pots,  and  outside  these  is  an  arrangement  of 
mirrors  called  speis,  or  spies,  which  enables  the 
people  inside  to  see  what  is  going  on  in  the 
street  without  themselves  being  seen.  The  fa- 
cades of  the  streets  of  Rotterdam  present  but  two 
colors — dark  red  and  white.  Seen  from  a  dis- 
tance, the  houses  seem  to  be  almost  black,  and 
with  the  strong  contrast  of  the  white  lines  of  the 


88  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

windows  and  cornices  they  look  quite  funereal. 
On  the  other  hand,  when  you  examine  them  more 
closely,  they  assume  a  comical  and  carnivalesque 
aspect.  Most  of  the  houses  have  only  a  breadth 
of  two  windows  and  a  height  of  two  or  three 
stories,  but  the  facade  rises  above  and  conceals 
the  roof,  narrowing  up  into  a  truncated  triangle, 
into  depressed  and  interrupted  arches,  or,  more 
commonly,  the  frontal  is  cut  into  steps  like  the 
toy  houses  that  children  build  with  wooden  bricks. 
These  frontals  are  bordered  with  a  white  cornice 
and  often  adorned  with  heavy  ornaments  and 
arabesques  in  relief,  and  in  the  middle  a  beam 
juts  out  with  a  pulley  at  the  end  to  draw  up  bas- 
kets or  weights.  But  all  these  houses  are  so 
clean,  so  spick  and  span,  so  neat,  so  miniature, 
and  so  comic  in  aspect  that  you  can  hardly  be- 
lieve that  they  are  the  dwellings  of  sober  and 
worthy  citizens,  and  not  the  back-scene  of  some 
comic  opera  or  the  paraphernalia  of  some  im- 
mense carnival. 

This  impression  that  you  are  in  a  toyland  con- 
stantly strikes  you  in  the  Dutch  towns.  Every- 
thing is  so  orderly,  and  so  much  care  is  given  to 
details.  The  very  trees  that  run  in  tall  rows 
along  the  canals  seem  unreal,  so  dark  is  the  green 
of  their  foliage,  and  so  calm  and  sleepy  their  out- 
line. The  canals  themselves,  with  their  serried 
ranks  of  imprisoned  ships,  seem  hardly  practical. 
Surely  these  gayly  painted  barks  cannot  carry 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  HOLLAND.  89 

merchandise  ;  they  cannot  come  from  anywhere  or 
go  anywhere ;  they  cannot  pass  the  innumerable 
bridges  with  their  tall  masts ;  certainly  they  can 
only  be  toy  boats  placed  there  to  fill  up  the  scene ! 
In  reality  nothing  could  be  more  serious  than  the 
Rotterdam  canals  and  the  Rotterdam  boats.  Along 
the  quay  of  the  Meuse,  transatlantic  steamers  can 
be  moored,  and  many  of  the  canals  in  the  heart 
of  the  town  are  so  deep  that  sea-going  ships  can 
come  up  to  them  and  unload  their  cargoes  at  the 
very  warehouse  doors.  But  most  of  the  boats 
that  you  see  on  the  Rotterdam  canals  navigate 
simply  on  the  Rhine  and  the  Dutch  canals.  These 
have  only  one  or  two  masts ;  they  are  broad, 
bulky,  robust  boats^  tricked  out  with  paint  and 
varnish  like  gala  barges.  Many  are  painted 
green  exteriorly,  with  broad  bands  of  white  or 
red  running  from  end  to  end.  The  poop  is  gild- 
ed ;  the  deck,  the  masts,  and  the  spars  glisten 
with  varnish.  The  deck-house,  the  hatches,  the 
tips  of  the  masts  and  spars,  the  water-barrel,  the 
hen-coop,  the  chains,  rings,  and  blocks  are  all 
painted  with  gay  tints  of  red,  green,  or  blue 
picked  out  with  white.  The  house  on  board, 
where  the  skipper  and  his  family  live,  is  gener- 
ally as  gayly  painted  as  a  Chinese  kiosk,  and  at 
the  little  windows  the  curtains  are  tied  up  with 
gay  ribbons,  and  the  flower-pots  are  painted 
bright  red,  and  the  brass  curtain-rods  are  rubbed 
till  they  shine  like  mirrors. 


go  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

Now,  imagine  the  effect  of  all  this  mass  of  color, 
of  this  forest  of  masts  and  ropes  and  sails  and 
streamers,  set  off  against  the  dark  background  of 
the  trees  and  houses  and  quays;  in  mid-canal 
imagine  a  little  row-boat,  laden  with  fruit  and 
vegetables,  standing  out  with  their  brilliant  reds 
and  greens  and  yellows  against  the  black  water 
of  the  canal ;  at  the  end  of  the  canal  picture  the 
square  cathedral  tower  and  a  vision  of  huge 
windmill  sails,  and  overhead  a  sky  full  of  sinister 
obscurations,  changing  and  moving  pei-petually ; 
add  to  this  vision  the  human  element — sombrely 
dressed  men  working  tranquilly,  little  servant- 
maids  with  lilac  dresses  and  quaint  white  head- 
dresses, perpetually  occupied  in  scrubbing  and 
sweeping  and  rubbing — and  you  will  then  have 
some  idea  of  the  superficial  aspect  of  Rotterdam, 
the  chief  commercial  city  of  Holland, 

In  going  from  Rotterdam  to  Delft  I  saw  for 
the  first  time  what  Dutch  landscape  really  is. 
We  started  one  afternoon  from  the  Delft  Gate  on 
a  stooinpoot  unworthy  of  the  name.  It  was  a  sort 
of  barge,  with  cabins  fore  and  aft  and  engine  and 
smoke-stack  amidships.  The  craft  was  painted 
green  with  white  stripes.  The  roofs  of  the  cab- 
ins were  asphalted,  and  on  the  roof  of  the  fore- 
cabin  were  placed  folding  X  chairs ;  v/hile  on 
the  roof  of  the  aft,  or  second-class  cabin,  were 
placed  queer,  stubby  little  benches  about  six 
inches  high.     We  wondered  why  the  Dutchmen 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  9 1 

liked  to  sit  so  low,  but,  being  strangers,  we  made 
no    remarks.     The    start   was    uneventful.     We 
took  on  board  three  pigs  —  much  against  their 
wills  —  an  ice-cream  machine  with  its  roof  and 
fixings,  several  hampers  and  baskets  of  fruit,  a 
young    Parisian    married    couple,  Georges    and 
Therese,  and  some  odd  native  passengers.     By 
means  of  poles  and  strenuous  efforts  the  boat's 
head  was  got  round,  and  we  steamed  forward.    Re- 
mark that  during  the  difficult  operation  of  taking 
the  pigs  on  board  and  turning  the  boat  scarcely 
a  word  was  spoken ;  the  sky  was  gray ;  the  water 
of  the  canal  was  still  as  an  oil -tank;  the  tran- 
quillity was  only  disturbed  by  an  old  man  who 
was  scooping  water  out  of  the  canal  with  a  long 
shovel  and  flinging  it  over  the  quay  to  lay  the 
dust,  regardless  of  the  convenience  of  the  passers- 
by,  some  of  whom  mildly  protested.     Soon  after 
starting  we  met  a  barge  with  a  large  family  on 
board,  towed   along  by   the   eldest  brother,  the 
eldest  sister,  and  an  ugly  bastard  bull-dog,  har- 
nessed together,  one  in  front  of  the  other,  the  dog 
leading.     Then  we  sighted  a  bridge,  apparently 
only  about  six  feet  above  the  water ;  we  neared 
the  bridge,  but  the  bridge  neither  swung  round 
nor  rose  in  the  air.     How  were  we  to  pass  under 
it?     The  situation  became  alarming  the  nearer 
we  approached.     Georges  and  Therese  grew  pale, 
but  the  stoomhoot  continued  its  course.     Then, 
with  a  rattle  of  chains,  the  funnel  was  lowered. 


gz  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

and  to  save  our  lives  we  tourists  on  the  cabin 
roof  lay  flat  on  our  stomachs,  much  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  native  passengers,  who  had  prudent- 
ly remained  on  the  deck  below.  The  passage  of 
this  first  bridge  taught  us  the  way  down  the 
ladder,  and  explained  the  lowness  of  the  benches. 
Soon  we  sighted  Schiedam,  surrounded  by  a 
cordon  of  gigantic  windmills,  which  give  it  the 
air  of  a  fortified  town  crowned  with  towers. 
Thence  we  glided  along  rapidly  through  vast 
plains  of  pasture-land,  full  of  black  and  white 
cattle  and  horses.  On  either  side  were  broad, 
flowery  meadows,  traversed  by  long  lines  of  pop- 
lars and  willows.  In  the  distance  we  saw  village 
spires.  Often  the  meadows  were  far  below  the 
level  of  the  canal.  The  solitude  was  only  en- 
livened by  two  or  three  chocolate-colored  sails 
which  loomed  into  view  from  time  to  time.  The 
steamer  would  slacken  speed  to  see  what  course 
they  would  take,  and  then  they  would  glide  past 
us,  their  sail-boom  grazing  our  heads.  Other 
boats  would  come  along,  with  a  man  pushing 
against  th,e  bow  with  a  long  pole  fixed  at  right 
angles;  others  again  were  hauled  by  trios  of 
dogs,  men,  and  women.  At  intervals  all  along 
the  route  were  windmills,  not  the  broken-down, 
piteous  windmills  of  France,  but  triumphant  mon- 
sters which  even  Don  Quixote  would  have  hesi- 
tated to  attack.  Some  are  built  of  masonry, 
round  or  octagon,  like  mediaeval   towers ;  other 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  93 

smaller  mills  are  of  wood,  perched  on  the  point 
of  a  pyramid  of  brickwork.     Most  of  them  are 
thatched  and  encircled  half-way  up  by  a  wood- 
en gallery.     The  windows  are  neatly  draped  with 
white  curtains,  the  doors  are  painted  green,  and 
over  the  door  is  a  sign  indicating  the  nature  of 
the  mill.     The  small  mills  are  mostly  used  for 
pumping  water  and  draining  the  meadows ;  the 
larger  ones  are  used  for  all  sorts  of  purposes, 
grinding  corn,  limestone,  or  colza,  tobacco  manu- 
facturing, paper  making,  and,  above  all,  sawing. 
Most  of  the  mills  between  Rotterdam  and  Delft 
are  saw-mills.     They  are  placed  close  at  the  wa- 
ter's edge,  and  surrounded  by  reservoirs  in  which 
are  seen   floating   thousands   of    logs   of  wood, 
which  the  lumbermen  manipulate  with  long  hooks, 
but  always  silently.     The  only  noise  you  hear  is 
the  monotonous   tic-tac  of  the  Avindmills.     The 
villages  along  the  canal  are  equally  silent.     The 
houses  are  built  at  the  very  edge  of  the  water, 
and  the  women  do  their  washing  from  their  door- 
step  in    the    canal    itself,  while    the    watch-dog 
sleeps  in  his  basket,  and  the  big,  square-headed, 
heavy  Dutch  cats  lie  basking  in  the  sun. 

From  time  to  time  the  stern  of  the  stoomhoot 
was  steered  inshore,  and  a  passenger  got  on  or 
off,  and  so  on  we  glided  sleepily  through  brilliant 
green  pastures  and  windmills,  and  beds  of  rushes, 
all  calm  and  tranquil  until  we  came  to  the  village 
of  Overschie.     Here  there  was  a  tangle  of  boats 


94 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


coming  in  opposite  directions ;  the  canal  was  nar- 
row, and  everything  seemed  to  be  in  an  inextri- 
cable mess.     The  steamer  slowed,  not  a  word  was 
said,  and  the  men  calmly  went  to  work  with  poles 
and  cleared  the  passage.     Not  a  single  impatient 
word  was  uttered,  and  yet  the  confusion  was  for- 
midable.    At  the  risk  of  seeming  to  repeat  my- 
self, I  cannot  help  again  remarking  the  curious 
silence  and  tranquillity  of  this  trip.     There  was 
no  exchange  of  greetings  between  the  crews  of 
the  barges ;  the  men  on  our  boat  did  not  talk  ; 
the  cattle  in  the  meadows  did  not  low ;  there  were 
no   birds    twittering    and   flying    about,  nothing 
winged  visible  but  ducks  and  occasionally  a  sea- 
gull, and  even  the  ducks  were  silent  and  cleared 
out  of  the  way  of  the  approaching  steamer  with- 
out uttering  a  single  couac.     Naturally  we  could 
not  help  being  struck  by  this  phenomenal  calm- 
ness and  stillness  of  the  Dutch  people  and  of 
Dutch  landscape.     Wherever  we  went  afterwards, 
we  made  the  same  observation.     The  whole  coun- 
try seemed  asleep,  like  the  waters  of  the  canals, 
and  you  travel  as  it  were  in  a  dream.    The  canal- 
boat  is  the  real  vehicle  from  v/hich  to  see  Hol- 
land, and  you  will  get  a  truer  and  more  complete 
impression  of  the  country  of  dykes,  polders,  ca- 
nals, and  windmills,  from  an  afternoon's  journey 
on  a  trekshicit  or  a  stoomboot  than  from  days  of 
travelling  from  town  to  town  in  a  railway  car. 
Naturally,  it  strikes  the  traveller  as  exceedingly 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  95 

odd  to  find  that  the  level  of  the  country  is  just 
as  often  as  not  below  the  level  of  the  navigable 
canals,  while  the  whole  country  itself  is  intersected 
by  a  dense  net-work  of  minor  canals,  into  which 
or  out  of  which  there  are  innumerable  little  wind- 
mills constantly  pumping  water.     And  over  this 
country  there  circulates  a  cool,  fresh,  moist  air, 
impregnated  with  that  savory  odor  of  peat  which 
is   characteristic  of  Holland.      The  Hollanders 
have  no  coal,  and  the  wood  that  they  possess  has 
been  raised  painfully  and  planted  with  jealous 
care   to   consolidate   the   land    conquered   from 
marshes  or  from  the  sea.     These  trees  are  too 
precious   to   burn,  and   so   the   national   fuel  is 
fibrous  earth,  which  gives  a  comfortable,  homely 
smell  to  the  towns  and  villages,  suggestive  of  tea- 
brewing  in  brilliantly  burnished  utensils,  and  of 
cosy  fires  smouldering  away  in  neatly  brushed-up 
hearths.      Every   traveller   will   understand   this 
matter  of  national  odors ;  they  tell  one  every- 
thing, the  latitude,  the  distance  from  the  pole  or 
the  equator,  from  the  coal-mines  or  the  aloes  plant, 
the  climate,  the  seasons,  the  habits,  the  history 
even  of  a  country.     Every  land  favored  by  nature 
has   its    aromatic   perfumes  and  its  odoriferous 
smoke    that   speaks    to   the    imagination.      The 
smell  of  the  peat  smoke  of  Holland  brings  up  to 
the  mind  the  whole  existence  and  history  of  the 
country  of  dykes,  polders,  and  canals. 

It  may  be  said  of  the  three  principal  Dutch 


g6  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

towns,  that  at  Rotterdam  the  Dutchman  makes  his 
fortune,  at  Amsterdam  he  consolidates  it,  and  at 
the  Hague  he  spends  it.  The  Hague  is  one  of 
the  least  Dutch  of  Dutch  towns.  It  reminds  one 
at  once  of  Versailles,  of  the  Pare  Monceau  at 
Paris,  and  of  the  West  End  of  London.  It  has 
just  enough  local  features  to  give  it  a  peculiar 
charm,  and  just  enough  elegant  cosmopolitism  to 
render  it  a  European  capital.  At  the  Hague  we 
find  a  native  aristocracy,  a  foreign  aristocracy,  and 
imposing  wealth  established  in  conditions  of 
ample  and  somewhat  haughty  luxury.  The 
Hague  is  even  a  royal  city,  and  it  only  wants  a 
palace  worthy  of  its  rank  in  order  to  make  all  the 
traits  of  its  physiognomy  in  harmony  with  its  final 
destiny.  You  feel  that  its  old  stathouders  were 
princes ;  that  these  princes  were  in  their  way 
Medicis ;  that  they  had  a  taste  for  the  throne  ;  that 
they  ought  to  have  reigned  somewhere,  and  that 
it  was  not  their  fault  if  it  was  not  here. 

Thus  the  Hague  is  an  exceedingly  distinguished 
town,  as  it  has  a  right  to  be,  for  it  is  very  rich,  and 
riches  entail  as  a  duty  fine  manners  and  magnifi- 
cence ;  it  is  correct  and  peaceable ;  its  streets  are 
broad  and  handsome  ;  its  houses  substantial  and 
brilliant  with  paint,  varnish,  and  burnished  brass- 
es ;  the  waters  of  its  canals  are  green,  and  reflect 
only  the  bright  verdure  of  their  banks.  The 
woods  of  the  Hague  are  admirable.  Born  of  the 
caprice  of  a  prince,  as  its  Dutch  name,  s'Graven- 


IMPRESSIONS    OF    HOLLAND.  97 

haag — Count's  Park  —  indicates,  formerly  a  hunt- 
ing-seat of  the  Counts  of  Holland,  the  Hague  has 
a  passion  for  trees,  and  the  forest  is  the  favorite 
promenade  of  the  inhabitants,  the  place  where 
they  hold  their  fetes,  their  concerts,  their  military 
parades,  and  their  rendezvous.  The  great  do- 
mestic luxury  of  the  Hague  is  an  abundance  of 
plants  and  flowers.  The  gardens,  the  houses, 
the  verandas,  the  windows,  are  full  of  rare  plants ; 
on  the  lawns  are  noble  animals  grazing  at  liber- 
ty; for  the  Hague  has  inherited  from  the  Nassau 
princes  the  taste  for  gardening,  for  forest  prom- 
enades in  sumptuous  carriages,  for  menageries 
and  other  princely  faniaisies.  The  architecture 
of  the  town  reminds  one  of  the  French  architec- 
ture of  the  seventeenth  century.  Its  exotic  lux- 
ury comes  from  Asia.  Its  practical  comfort  and 
solid  homeliness  reminds  one  so  much  of  London 
that  one  can  hardly  say  which  town  has  served  as 
a  model  for  the  other.  In  short,  with  its  splen- 
did promenades,  its  woods,  its  beautiful  water- 
walks,  its  private  mansions,  its  collections  of  pict- 
ures, its  ancient  palace  where  so  much  of  the  his- 
tory of  Holland  has  been  made,  the  Hague  is  a 
town  to  be  seen,  and  a  town  which  predisposes  to 
calm  and  studious  meditation.  The  lake  in  the 
centre  of  the  town,  the  Vidjer,  is  a  most  original 
spot.  Imagine  an  immense  reservoir  surrounded 
by  quays  and  palaces.  To  the  right  is  a  prome- 
nade planted  with  trees,  and,  beyond  the  trees, 

7 


98  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

mansions  enclosed  in  their  gardens ;  to  the  left 
is  the  Binnenhof,  built  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
the  residence  of  the  stathouders,  the  scene  of  the 
massacre  of  Barneveldt.  The  palace  walls  are 
washed  by  the  waters  of  the  reservoir ;  its  fagade 
of  red  brick,  its  slate  roofs,  its  morose  air,  its 
physiognomy  of  another  age,  its  tragic  souvenirs, 
give  it  that  vague  something  which  is  peculiar  to 
certain  places  famous  in  history.  Beyond,  in  the 
distance,  you  see  the  cathedral  spire  ;  in  the  midst 
of  the  lake  is  a  green  island,  where  the  swans 
preen  themselves  ;  above  in  the  air  and  around 
the  irregular  roofs  of  the  palace  are  swarms  of 
swallows.  All  around  perfect  silence  reigns,  pro- 
found repose,  complete  oblivion  of  things  present 
and  past. 

At  the  southern  angle  of  the  reservoir  is  the 
Mauritshuis,  where  the  royal  collection  of  pictures 
is  now  hung.  What  a  contrast  and  what  a  lesson, 
as  the  painter  Fromentin  has  remarked,  are  con- 
tained in  these  two  neighboring  palaces  !  The 
Binnenhof  is  full  of  the  memories  of  William  the 
Silent,  of  the  brothers  De  Witt,  of  Barneveldt, 
of  Maurice  of  Nassau,  of  Heinsius,  of  the  "States- 
General,  which  for  fifty  years  held  out  against 
Spain  and  England,  and  dictated  conditions  to 
Louis  XIV.  In  the  Mauritshuis  are  the  master- 
works  of  two  painters,  Rembrandt  and  Paul  Pot- 
ter. Every  day  some  pilgrims  from  the  four 
quarters  of  the  world  go  and  knock  at  the  door 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  99 

of  the  museum  :  not  half  a  dozen  times  in  the 
year  does  a  tourist  disturb  the  solitude  of  the 
Binnenhof  or  the  Buitenhof,  or  derange  the 
spiders  in  their  dust-spinning  operations  in  the 
historic  chamber  of  the  States-General.  Why 
should  there  be  so  much  curiosity  felt  about  a 
picture  and  so  little  about  the  historic  palace 
where  great  statesmen  and  great  citizens  strug- 
gled most  heroically  for  their  country,  their  relig- 
ion, and  their  liberty  ?  The  fact  is  that  the  heroes 
of  history  do  not  always  owe  their  lasting  renown 
to  their  own  acts.  A  nation  disappears  with  its 
laws,  its  manners,  its  conquests ;  there  remains 
of  its  history  but  a  fragment  of  marble  or  bronze, 
and  this  testimony  is  enough.  By  his  intelligence, 
his  courage,  his  political  sense,  and  his  public 
acts,  Pericles  was  a  very  great  man ;  but  per- 
haps humanity  would  not  know  even  his  name  if 
it  were  not  embalmed  in  literature,  and  if  he  had 
not  employed  a  friend  of  his,  a  great  sculptor,  to 
decorate  the  temples  of  Athens.  Alcibiades  was 
frivolous,  dissipated,  witty,  foppish,  libertine, 
though  valiant  when  duty  called  him  ;  and  yet  he 
is  more  universally  spoken  of  than  Solon,  Plato, 
Socrates,  or  Themistocles.  Was  he  wiser  or  braver 
than  they  ?  Did  he  serve  better  than  they  truth, 
justice,  and  the  interests  of  his  country  ?  No. 
He  simply  had  the  advantage  of  an  immense 
charm  ;  he  loved  passionately  all  that  was  beauti- 
ful—  women,  books,  statues,  and  pictures.    An- 


lOO  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

tony  was  an  unfortunate  general,  a  mediocre  poli- 
tician, a  giddy  ruler ;  but  he  had  the  good-for- 
tune to  love  one  of  the  most  seductive  women  in 
history,  that  "rare  Egyptian,"  as  Shakespeare  calls 
her,  who  was  the  incarnation  of  all  beauty. 

The  ingenious  James  Howell,  in  one  of  his 
"Epistolae  Ho-Eliance,"  remarks  of  the  Dutch 
that  their  towns  are  beautiful  and  neatly  built, 
but  with  such  uniformity  that  who  sees  one  sees 
all.  The  same  observer  remarks  that  the  Hol- 
lander is  slow,  surly,  and  respectless  of  gentry 
and  strangers,  homely  in  his  clothing,  of  very  few 
words,  and  heavy  in  action.  The  Hollanders  and 
their  towns  remain  to-day  very  much  the  same  as 
they  were  nearly  three  centuries  ago  when  Howell 
wrote.  The  principal  changes  are  that  the  na- 
tional costume  is  no  longer  worn  much  except  in 
the  extreme  north  ;  that  the  national  head-dresses 
of  the  different  provinces  are  rapidly  falling  out 
of  use ;  that  there  are  railways  all  over  the  coun- 
try and  tramways  all  over  the  towns,  even  in  such 
quiet  places  as  Leyden  and  Utrecht,  which  the 
guide-books  perversely  describe  as  dead  cities. 
Furthermore,  Colman's  starch,  Huntley  &  Palm- 
er's biscuits.  Pears'  soap,  Singer's  sewing-ma- 
chines, Stephens's  ink,  English  stationery,  Eng- 
lish cutlery,  English  children's  books,  and  Bass's 
bitter  pursue  the  traveller  all  over  the  Low  Coun- 
tries. Of  Amsterdam  I  need  say  very  little. 
Like  Rotterdam,  it  is  a  city  of  quays  and  canals 


IMPRESSIONS    OF    HOLLAND.  101 

and  brick  fagades,  only  it  is  more  gloomy  and 
dingy,  and,  as  if  the  deepest  red  bricks  were  not 
dark  enough,  some  of  the  Amsterdam  houses  are 
actually  painted  black.  Built  upon  ninety  islands, 
which  are  connected  together  by  three  hundred 
and  fifty  bridges,  intersected  by  canals  in  every 
direction,  Amsterdam  is  a  sort  of  Northern  Venice, 
a  Venice  enlarged  and  made  ugly,  and  not  partic- 
ularly agreeable  to  explore  in  detail.  But  the  first 
view  of  the  town  as  you  approach  in  the  train 
is  very  striking,  even  after  having  seen  Rotter- 
dam. You  seem  to  have  before  you  a  veritable 
forest  of  windmills  rising  in  the  forms  of  towers, 
spires,  pyramids,  and  cones,  and  agitating  their 
colossal  wings  high  above  the  housetops.  Amid 
these  mills  rise  factory  chimneys,  spires  of  strange 
architecture,  roofs,  pinnacles,  and  points  of  un- 
known forms,  masts  of  ships,  and,  beyond,  other 
windmills  fading  away  over  the  surrounding 
plains.  The  effect  is  grandiose  and  imposing. 
But  for  characteristic  Dutchness,  if  I  may  so  ex- 
press myself,  and  quiet,  sleepy  charm,  I  prefer 
Leyden  and  Utrecht,  which  towns  travellers  are 
generally  advised  not  to  visit  because  they  con- 
tain few  monuments,  museums,  or  "  sights."  To 
my  mind  one  of  the  great  charms  of  Holland  is 
that,  apart  from  the  incomparable  picture-galler- 
ies of  Amsterdam,  Haarlem,  and  the  Hague,  the 
country  has  no  special  sights ;  the  chief  pleasure 
of  the  traveller  consists  in  taking  in  general  im- 


I02  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

pressions  which  are  utterly  new  and  strange,  and 
he  may  visit  almost  any  town  in  Holland  without 
feeling  himself  in  duty  bound  to  examine  any 
particular  monument,  church,  or  palace.  Unlike 
their  neighbors,  the  Belgians,  the  Hollanders  are 
not  great  in  architecture.  In  all  their  towns  you 
feel  that  the  people  were  in  a  hurry  to  install  them- 
selves on  the  mud  they  had  conquered  from  sea 
or  marsh,  but,  being  concerned  solely  with  their 
commerce,  their  labor,  their  individual  and  limited 
comfort,  they  never  thought,  even  in  their  grand- 
est days  of  prosperity  of  building  palaces.  Ten 
minutes  passed  on  the  Grand  Canal  at  Venice, 
and  ten  others  passed  on  the  Kalverstraat  at 
Amsterdam,  will  tell  you  all  that  history  has  to 
teach  about  the  genius  of  the  two  countries.  In 
the  land  of  Spinosa  and  Rembrandt,  the  windows 
of  the  houses  taking  up  more  space  than  the 
walls,  the  little  balconies  with  their  flower-pots, 
the  spy-mirrors  fixed  on  the  windows,  the  careful 
neatness  of  the  blinds  and  curtains,  indicate  that 
in  this  climate  the  winter  is  long,  the  sun  unfaith- 
ful, the  light  sparing  of  its  rays,  and  life  of  neces- 
sity sedentary;  that  open-air  revelries  are  rare, 
and  indoor  joys  lively ;  and  that  the  eye,  the 
mind,  and  the  soul  naturally  contract  in  these 
conditions  that  form  of  patient,  attentive,  minute 
investigation,  as  it  were  with  a  screwing  up  of 
the  eyes,  which  is  common  to  all  Dutch  thinkers, 
from  the  metaphysicians  down  to  the  painters. 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  103 

At  Leyden  I  stayed  a  whole  week  without  see- 
ing a  single  sight.     The  country  all  around  is 
more  wooded  than  any  other  part  of  Holland, 
and  Leyden   itself  is   a  perfect  paradise.     The 
canals   there   are   beautiful   beyond  expression, 
and  the  water  almost  limpid  and  quite  unlike  the 
black  fluid  we  had  seen  at  Amsterdam  and  Rot- 
terdam ;  the  people  are  better-looking,  especially 
the  women  and  children,  who  appeared  to  spend 
much  time  in  basking  in  the  sun  and  loafing  in  the 
beautiful  public  gardens  of  the  city.    The  streets  of 
Leyden  are  lined  with  fine  shops  brilliantly  lighted 
up  at  night,  and  reflected  in  the  tranquil  waters 
of  the  canals.     I  may  remark  generally  that  the 
Dutch  shops  are  all  admirably  illuminated  and 
give  a  peculiar  aspect  to  the  streets  at  night,  for 
this  reason  :  the  Dutch  houses  are  narrow ;  the 
shop  fronts,  generally  of  plate  glass,  occupy  the 
whole  width  of  the  ground  floor ;  the  upper  part 
of   the   fagade   remains  in  gloom.     The   conse- 
quence is  that  when  the  shops  are  lighted  up  they 
form,  as  it  were,  one  continuous  band  of  light, 
which  seems  to  support  the  houses.     The  dark 
upper  stories  represent  old-fashioned  Holland; 
the  dazzling  ground-floor  represents  the  new  life 
of  fashion,  luxury,  and  elegance.     Thanks  to  this 
lavish  burning  of  gas  the  Dutch  towns  are  quite 
gay  at  night ;  the  streets  are  full  of  promenaders, 
and  in  fact  the  evening  is  the  busy  part  of  the 
day  for  the   shopkeepers.     But  what   delighted 


104  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

me  most  at  Leyden  was  the  daylight  aspect  of 
the  town,  with  its  canals  bordered  with  fine  old 
trees  and  quaintly  gabled  houses,  the  innumer- 
able bridges,  the  swans,  the  calm,  the  happy-look- 
ing people,  the  carillon  of  the  cathedral,  the  gar- 
dens and  water-walks.  One  could  not  desire  a 
more  delightful  place  for  tranquil  meditation,  and 
as  a  university  town  it  is  almost  as  perfect  as 
Oxford.  But  alas !  the  University  of  Leyden 
has  fallen  from  its  high  estate,  and  only  a  few 
hundred  students  now  tread  the  streets  where 
thousands  used  to  crowd  to  hear  Lipsius,  Vossius, 
Heinsius,  Gronovius,  Hemsterhuys,  the  great 
Julius  Ceesar  Scaliger,  and  other  mighty  doctors 
whose  names  are  immortal  in  the  annals  of  clas- 
sical learning.  Vanished,  too,  the  house  of  those 
famous  printers,  the  Elzevirs.  In  1807  the  whole 
quarter  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of  a  pow- 
der magazine,  and  with  it  the  printing  establish- 
ment of  Jean  Elzevir,  "  so  renowned  throughout 
all  Christendom  for  its  fine  type,"  as  pompous  old 
Percival  says  in  his  quaint  volume,  "Les  Delices 
de  la  Hollande." 

Our  stay  at  Leyden  was  rendered  all  the  more 
agreeable  by  the  excellent  hospitality  of  the  Hotel 
du  Lion  d'Or,  which  must  have  been  a  palace 
in  the  old  days  of  Leyden's  prosperity.  The 
entrance  hall  is  very  lofty ;  the  front  door  is  a 
massive  and  finely  sculptured  piece  of  eighteenth 
century  rocaille  work ;  the  floor  is  of  white  mar- 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   HOLLAND.  105 

ble  veined  with  rose,  and  the  walls  are  wainscoted 
some  way  up  with  the  same  marble ;  at  the  end 
of  the  hall,  opposite  the  dining-room  door,  is  a 
delicately  carved  marble  fontaitie  with  a  silver 
swan's-neck  tap,  where  you  may  wash  your  fingers. 
The  staircase,  with  its  massive  handrail  of  mahog- 
any, is  roofed  over  with  an  octagon  lantern  with 
small  square  pane  windows,  the  lantern  being 
decorated  with  mascarofis  and  scrolls  at  the  eight 
angles,  while  in  the  middle  on  the  white  ground 
is  a  dark  blue  dial  with  a  gold  finger  and  gold 
lettering.  This  dial  is  connected  with  the 
weathercock  on  the  roof  outside  and  indicates 
the  direction  of  the  wind.  What  could  be  more 
characteristic  of  an  inclement  Northern  climate, 
what  more  suggestive  of  a  Dutchman's  love  of 
comfort,  than  this  interior  weathercock  indicator  ? 
The  idea  struck  me  as  very  sensible,  and  the 
mysterious  and  silent  movement  of  the  hand  on 
the  dial  gave  a  pleasing  animation  to  this  stately 
staircase. 

Quitting  sleepy  Leyden,  with  its  souvenirs  of 
ancient  learning  and  ancient  splendor,  we  made 
an  excursion  in  an  unpoetical  steam  tramway  to 
Katwyk-an-Zee,  a  little  sea-side  village  much  fre- 
quented by  the  Dutch,  and  within  three  quarters 
of  an  hour's  ride  from  Leyden.  The  journey  is 
interesting.  The  steam  tram  rattles  along  through 
fields,  between  little  canals,  along  village  streets 
lined  with  trees  cropped  fan-shape,  whose  branch- 


I06  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

es  rustle  against  the  windows.  All  these  cottages 
are  clean  and  excessively  tidy,  and  each  window 
is  provided  with  that  blue  wire-gauze  screen  in  a 
black  frame  which  is  one  of  the  distinguishing 
features  of  window  furniture  throughout  Holland. 
You  pass  the  Chdteaic  of  Endegeest,  where  Des- 
cartes wrote  his  principal  philosophical  and 
mathematical  works  ;  about  half-way  you  come  to 
a  seminary  of  priests,  whom  you  see  clad  like  the 
characters  in  the  pictures  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, smoking  their  cigars  and  pipes  calmly  in  a 
garden  gay  with  all  kinds  of  flowers.  Then 
gradually  the  country  becomes  less  smiling,  and 
you  sight  a  belt  of  low,  irregular  gray  hillocks  or 
sand  dunes.  The  land  grows  more  desolate  and 
sandy,  the  rich  green  grass  of  the  Dutch  pastures 
yields  place  to  wiry  sand-squitch,  and  you  see 
only  here  and  there  a  sunken  patch  of  potatoes 
or  black  oats  growing  some  four  or  five  feet  below 
the  level  of  the  sand.  Then  deep  down  amid  the 
dunes,  in  a  sort  of  ravine,  there  is  a  pond  of  black 
water,  and  in  the  pond  a  green  barge.  This  is 
the  Leyden  Canal  boat,  and  here  is  the  termina- 
tion of  the  Leyden  Canal,  with  which  the  Rhine 
has  consented  to  amalgamate.  What  a  piteous 
ending  for  the  glorious  stream  that  tumbles 
tumultuously  over  the  rocks  of  Schaffhausen, 
passes  triumphantly  past  Ehrenbreitstein,  and 
reflects  in  its  long  course  princely  castles,  Gothic 
cathedrals,  historical  ruins,  famous  vineyards,  and 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  107 

Storied  mountains !  Can  that  poor  little  dingy 
stream  flowing  mildly  between  two  flat  and  deso- 
late banks  be  the  Rhine  that  we  have  all  heard 
celebrated  in  music  and  song? 

Proceeding  a  little  farther  on  at  a  higher  level 
we  come  to  the  village  of  Katwyk,  whose  streets 
are  beautifully  paved  with  red  and  yellow  bricks, 
and  lined  with  fishermen's  cottages  with  gardens 
hedged  around  with  many-colored  fragments  of 
broken-up  old  boats.  On  this  queer  fencing  the 
small  nets  are  hung  to  dry,  while  the  long  nets 
used  for  herring-fishing  may  be  seen  darkening 
the  slopes  of  the  dunes  with  their  black  meshes. 
At  the  end  of  the  village  you  find  yourself  on  the 
summit  of  an  immense  dyke  which  runs  away 
along  the  coast  in  either  direction,  and  in  front 
of  you  stretches  the  North  Sea,  gray,  wrinkled, 
rough,  and  desolate.  At  a  short  distance  along 
the  dyke  you  come  to  a  black  channel  running 
into  the  sea  at  right  angles,  and  banked  in  on 
either  side  by  huge  slabs  of  black  granite,  bor- 
dered with  an  edging  of  stakes  and  fascines  to 
break  up  the  waves.  At  the  head  of  this  canal, 
on  a  line  with  the  dykes,  whose  continuity  is  un- 
interrupted at  this  spot,  are  four  huge  pillars  of 
gray  stone  surmounted  by  a  tremendous  blank 
wall,  built  of  Cyclopean  blocks  of  stone.  Between 
the  pillars  are  five  sets  of  sluice  gates.  It  is 
thanks  to  these  sluice  gates  that  the  poor  old 
Rhine  finally  gets  into  the  sea.     Formerly  it  lost 


I08  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

itself  utterly  in  the  swamps  of  Holland,  and  pre- 
sented the  strange  phenomenon  of  a  river  without 
a  mouth.     Under  the  reign  of  Louis  Bonaparte, 
in  1807,  the  waters  of  the  Rhine  were  collected 
in  a  canal  and  conducted  to  the  sea  by  a  series 
of  locks  and  sluice  gates  which  form  the  most 
grandiose  monument  in  Holland  and  the  most 
admirable  piece  of  hydraulic  engineering  in  Eu- 
rope.    The  locks  of  Katwyk  are  three  in  number. 
The  first  has  two  pairs  of  sluice  gates,  the  second 
four  pairs,  and  the  third  nearest  the  sea  five  pairs. 
When  the  tide  runs  in  the  gates  are  closed  to 
prevent  the  sea-water  running  into  the  lock,  for 
the  tide  rises  four  metres  high  up  the  gates  and 
is  often  far  above  the  level  of  the  canal,  and  con- 
sequently of  all  the  country  protected  by  the 
dykes.     When  the  tide  runs  out  the  gates  are 
opened  for  five  or  six  hours,  and  the  water  stored 
up  in  the  three  locks  is  let  out  at  the  rate  of  3000 
cubic  metres  a  second.     The  dykes  themselves 
look  like  more  or  less  regular  earthworks  of  sand 
planted  in  diagonal  lines  with  tufts   of  squitch 
grass. 

A  more  desolate,  cold,  dreary,  inhospitable  spot 
than  Katwyk  after  sunset,  or  in  the  gray  of  the 
evening,  I  never  saw.  The  wild  and  tumultuous 
dunes  that  slope  down  inland  beyond  the  dykes 
like  monstrous  petrified  waves,  the  monotonous 
desolation  of  the  sand-covered  dykes,  the  roaring 
of   the  horrid  sea,  and  that  still,  black  channel 


IMPRESSIONS   OF    HOLLAND.  109 

running  up  to  the  blankest  and  dismallest  of  walls 
against  which,  at  high  water,  the  waves  dash  and 
storm  in  vain — all  this  is  profoundly  desolate 
and  profoundly  impressive.  Here,  indeed,  the 
Hollanders,  in  their  calm  and  morose  way,  say  to 
the  sea,  "Thus  far  shalt  thou  come  and  no  far- 
ther !"  And  the  North  Sea  has  to  confess  itself 
conquered  and  leave  the  Hollanders  to  cultivate 
their  tulips  in  peace,  and  to  churn  their  butter  in 
prosperity  behind  the  enormous  and  wonderful 
fortress  of  the  dykes  and  locks  of  Katwyk. 


A    TRIP  TO   NAPLES. 

When  the  Continental  railway  companies  de- 
cide to  reform  their  rolling-stock  and  to  make  up 
their  trains  in  the  American  fashion,  with  restau- 
rant, smoking-room,  rocking-chairs,  bookstall,  and 
other  conveniences  all  on  board,  Europe  will  have 
made  a  great  step  towards  deserving  that  reputa- 
tion of  civilization  on  which  she  already  prides 
herself.  Alas  !  when  one  sees  the  accommodation 
which  the  railway  companies  place  at  the  dispos- 
al of  ordinary  mortals  for  a  fifteen  hours'  jour- 
ney, one  is  forcibly  reminded  that  European  civ- 
ilization in  matters  relating  to  travelling  is  only 
very  relative  and  certainly  nothing  to  boast  about. 
Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  discomfort,  I  always 
enjoy  the  first  long  jaunt  at  the  beginning  of  the 
summer  holidays.  It  is  pleasing  to  think  that 
you  are  realizing  a  long-cherished  project,  that 
for  a  time  you  are  going  to  live  a  new  life  in  new 
scenes,  to  see  new  faces  and  new  costumes,  and 
even  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  new  cookery. 
For  my  part,  too,  I  think  there  is  no  more  agree- 
able distraction  than  that  of  gazing  out  of  the 


A  TRIP    TO   NAPLES.  Ill 

window  at  the  moving  panorama  of  plain,  river, 
and  mountain  which  unrolls  itself  as  the  train 
rushes  past  and  leaves  on  the  memory  a  rapid 
but  none  the  less  striking  impression.  On  the 
day  when  I  left  Paris  a  night's  rain  had  laid  the 
dust,  the  air  was  fresh,  and  the  heavens  were 
charged  with  scudding  clouds  which  played  hide- 
and-seek  with  the  sun,  and  produced  all  day  most 
var}'ing  and  curious  skies.  It  was  neither  too  hot 
nor  too  cold,  too  cloudy  nor  too  sunny  ;  and  in 
these  conditions  it  was  charming  to  contemplate 
the  rich  vegetation  of  Burgundy,  the  vast  plains 
where  the  hay-wagons  were  being  drawn  by  cream- 
white  or  fulvous  oxen  marching  solemnly  with 
stately  tread,  the  Seine  Avinding  its  way  past 
pleasant  villages  and  gray  old  towns,  and  the 
vines  climbing  up  the  slopes.  The  Anglo-Saxon 
gentlemen  in  our  carriage  persisted  in  mistaking 
the  vines  for  "  dwarf  hops."  I  did  not  enlighten 
them,  not  wishing  to  give  myself  any  air  of  supe- 
rior knowledge. 

"  Tonnerre,  vingt  cinq  minutes  d'arret,  buftet !" 
cried  the  porters  as  the  train  slowed  along  the 
platform,  and  we  all  skipped  out  of  the  carriages 
and  made  haste  to  reach  the  refreshment-room, 
where  steaming  soup  was  awaiting  us  in  forty  and 
odd  plates.  A  well-drilled  squadron  could  not 
have  fallen  into  eating  position  with  more  pre- 
cision and  rapidity  than  our  train-load.  Not  a 
second  was  lost ;  there  was  no  crush  or  crowd ; 


112  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

and  suddenly  every  seat  was  occupied,  and  the 
silence  was  brusquely  broken  by  the  simultaneous 
clanking  of  forty  and  odd  soup-spoons  against 
forty  and  odd  soup-plates.  The  meal  was  very 
good,  and  served  with  such  rapidity  and  good 
order  that  in  less  than  twenty  minutes  each  of 
us  had  taken  soup,  fish,  and  roast,  a  vegetable, 
fowl  and  salad,  sweets,  cheese,  and  coffee  !  And 
yet,  in  spite  of  my  gastronomic  preoccupations,  I 
had  time  to  observe  the  lady  who  presided  over 
this  buffet,  a  tall,  stately,  white-skinned,  black- 
haired  Burgundian,  with  the  walk  and  bearing  of 
a  goddess,  and  a  predisposition  to  obesity;  but 
still,  I  should  say,  as  fine  a  woman  as  the  Venus 
of  Milo,  and  indisputably  far  more  complete. 

Leaving  Tonnerre,  we  traversed  the  rich  vine- 
yards of  the  Cote  d'Or,  passing  from  time  to  time 
some  quaint  old  village  perched  on  a  hill,  with 
its  church  spire  rising  above  the  trees,  and  its 
house-roofs  and  walls  running  over  the  whole 
gamut  of  reds,  browns,  and  grays,  and  mingling 
in  soft  harmony  with  the  various  greens  of  the 
luxuriant  vegetation.  Passing  Dijon,  we  arrived  in 
a  region  of  mountains,  covered  with  gloomy,  dark- 
foliaged  trees ;  then  we  sighted  the  Saone  river, 
which  kept  us  company  down  to  Lyons.  At  Lyons 
I  stayed  a  few  hours,  and  drove  round  the  town. 
The  park  at  Lyons,  with  its  lake,  its  palm-houses, 
its  immense  aviary,  trailed  over  with  roses,  its 
deer  paddock,  and  its  enormous  beds  of  rose-trees 


A   TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  1 13 

planted  in  profusion  all  over  the  lawns,  is  as 
beautiful  a  public  garden  as  I  have  ever  seen, 
Lyons  itself,  with  its  lofty  houses  climbing  up  the 
precipitous  heights  of  La  Croix  Rousse,  where 
are  the  principal  silk  manufactories,  is  pictur- 
esque enough  taken  as  a  whole,  but  neither  its 
streets  nor  its  monuments  will  excite  the  admi- 
ration of  the  traveller.  After  dinner  I  had  the 
good-fortune  to  find  some  mountebanks  on  the 
Place  Perrache,  and  spent  some  time  at  a  "  Con- 
cert Tunisien,"  where  three  girls  and  an  Arab 
formed  the  company,  the  star  of  which  was  Mdlle, 
Fatma,  who  had  had  *'  the  advantage  of  posing 
for  several  celebrated  painters,  and  of  having  her 
portrait  exhibited  in  the  Salon,  when  the  critics 
of  Paris  found  her  form  perfect  in  grace  and 
elegance."  So  said  the  showman,  whereupon 
Mdlle.  Fatma  sent  round  the  hat  for  her  petits 
benefices,  and,  clad  in  cloth  of  gold  and  carmine 
silk,  proceeded  to  execute  the  sword  dance,  while 
the  Arab  thumped  an  earthenware  drum,  the 
other  two  girls  shook  tambourines,  and  the  show- 
man strummed  a  monotonous  air  on  a  wheezy 
piano.     The  effect  was  suave  and  digestive. 

From  Lyons  to  Orange  my  journey  was  con- 
tinued in  the  dark.  At  Orange  I  woke  up  and 
found  myself  in  a  country  of  meadows  and  or- 
chards and  plantations  of  mulberry-trees  dimly 
visible  between  the  pale  moonlight  and  the  golden 
glow  which  was  already  illumining  the  eastern 
8 


114  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

sky,  I  was  in  Provence,  in  the  country  of  Mistral 
and  Daudet,  in  the  country  of  the  troubadours  and 
the  cigalas.  Happily,  the  sky  was  cloudless; 
at  last  I  had  escaped  from  the  region  of  rain 
and  gloom.  Avignon,  Tarascon,  Aries,  Miramas, 
follow  in  quick  succession,  and  the  country  be- 
comes more  and  more  curious.  Vast  fertile 
plains  alternate  with  rocky  wastes  and  marshes, 
and  in  the  distance  you  see  Mont  Ventoux  and 
the  chains  of  the  Alpilles,  with  their  strangely  jag- 
ged outlines  standing  out  in  deep  violet  relief 
against  the  clear  sky.  Then  you  pass  by  a  series 
of  blue  lakes  smiling  in  the  midst  of  a  wilderness 
of  yellow  and  brown  rocks,  and  so  to  Marseilles. 
To  my  mind  Marseilles  is  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful towns  in  Europe  during  a  stay  of  two  or 
three  days.  The  Cannebiere  with  its  cafe's  and 
the  incessant  and  varied  movement  of  the  street  \ 
the  animation  of  the  port ;  the  afternoon  concerts 
under  the  trees  in  the  Alle'e  de  Meillan;  the 
splendid  promenades  ;  the  vibrating  accent  of  the 
natives ;  the  mixture  of  African  and  Levantine 
elements  in  the  crowd :  all  this  affords  endless 
material  for  restful  musing.  My  intention  in 
coming  to  Marseilles  was  to  spend  some  time  in 
eating  the  native  dish  bouillabaisse  in  perfection 
and  then  to  proceed  by  sea  to  Naples.  The  first 
part  of  my  programme  was  executed  faithfully, 
and  repeatedly  my  steps  carried  me  along  the 
Corniche   Road   towards   the   restaurant   of   La 


A    TRIP    TO    NAPLES.  II5 

Reserve,  where  the  dynasty  of  Roubion  dispenses 
most  excellent  and  rare  dishes  on  shady  terraces 
almost  literally  overhanging  the  Mediterranean. 
Several  times  I  partook  of  that  especially  local 
dish  bouillabaisse,  and  always  with  new  pleasure ; 
for  the  sauce,  with  its  golden  -  brown  croustades, 
is  one  of  the  most  savory  stews  ever  made — a 
coiilis  of  the  "  trimmings "  of  a  hundred  little 
fishes  freshly  caught  and  distilled  slowly  over  a 
smokeless  fire,  with  fennel,  bay-leaves,  saffron, 
Manilla  pepper,  salt,  onions,  a  tomato,  and,  above 
all,  the  unctuous  oursin,  a  sort  of  sea-urchin, 
which  abounds  on  the  rocks  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean. Even  a  little  garlic  may  be  added  to  this 
liquid  treasure,  which  is  only  the  preface  of  the 
great  poem  of  stewed  fish  composed  of  the  per- 
fumed rascasse,  the  red  mullet,  the  whiting,  the 
pagel,  the  orade,  the  loup,  the  galinette,  and  other 
fishes  of  the  Southern  waters,  as  the  Marseillais 
poet  Mery  says : 

"  Et  d'autres  oublies  par  les  icthyologues, 
Fins  poissons  que  Neptune,  aux  feux  d'un  ciel  ardent, 
Choisit  a  la  fourchette  et  jamais  au  trident." 

While  rendering  due  homage  to  bouillabaisse,  I 
did  not  forget  two  excellent  and  little -known 
wines — Nerthe  and  Tavel.  The  latter,  grown  at 
Avignon  on  the  slopes  opposite  to  where  Cha- 
teau-neuf  des  Papes  used  to  grow,  is  a  luscious 
drink,  combining  the  bouquet  of  Spanish  wines 


Il6  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

with  the  piquancy  and  lightness  of  the  wines  of 
France.     I  recommend  it  to  amateurs. 

After  a  few  days'  gastronomic  and  other  explor- 
ations in  Marseilles,  I  embarked  on  a  fine  steamer 
bound  for  Shanghai,  and  a  run  of  thirty-six  hours 
brought  us  into  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Vesuxdus  was 
panting  forth  red  flashes  in  the  distance,  and  the 
promenades  and  streets  of  the  city,  all  illuminated 
on  the  occasion  of  some  fete  or  other,  formed  as 
it  were  an  immense  crown  of  luminous  pearls. 
No  sooner  had  we  arrived  in  the  port  than  small 
boats  began  to  crowd  around  the  ship,  several  of 
them  having  on  board  musicians,  who  bade  us  a 
harmonious  welcome  to  Naples.  Alas,  the  Pre- 
fect of  Naples  was  not  so  ready  to  receive  us  !  On 
the  contrary-,  he  had  just  heard  that  very  evening 
of  the  outbreak  of  cholera  at  Toulon,  and,  in  accord- 
ance with  orders  from  the  government  at  Rome, 
he  regretted  to  be  obliged  to  put  us  in  quarantine. 
So  the  yellow  flag  was  hoisted,  and  early  next 
morning  we  passengers  for  Naples  were  deposited 
in  the  lazzaretto  on  the  island  of  Nissida,  The 
surprise  was  as  complete  as  it  was  disagreeable, 
and  there  was  but  little  consolation  to  be  derived 
from  the  reflection  that  it  did  not  fall  to  the  lot 
of  many  summer  tourists  to  be  imprisoned  in  a 
plague-house. 

Our  arrival  at  the  lazzaretto  caused  great  ex- 
citement among  the  guardians  of  the  establish- 
ment, who  insisted  on  keeping  us  at  a  respectful 


A   TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  II7 

distance,  and  by  their  gestures  and  bearing  con- 
vinced us  that  it  is  by  no  means  agreeable  to  be 
suspected  of  being  the  harbingers  of  the  pest. 
Nevertheless,  as  we  all  felt  healthy  and  well,  we 
did  our  best  to  keep  up  our  spirits  and  to  make 
ourselves  as  comfortable  as  possible.  The  island 
of  Xissida  is  delightfully  situated  in  the  gulf  of 
Pozzuoli,  just  opposite  the  southwest  spur  of  the 
Posilippo.  It  appears  to  be  an  extinct  crater, 
opening  towards  the  south  and  forming  a  little 
bay,  around  t^^o  thirds  of  which  is  built  the  laz- 
zaretto,  while  the  other  part  is  occupied  by  a 
mole,  a  lighthouse,  and  barracks,  behind  which 
rises  a  hill  covered  with  olive-trees  and  crowned 
by  a  vast  circular  building  used  as  a  convict 
prison.  The  old  lazzaretto,  in  which  we  were 
imprisoned,  is  a  picturesque  old  place  built  in 
the  Moorish  st)le,  with  arcades  and  flat  roofs — a 
series  of  queer  blocks  perched  on  the  rocks  and 
communicating  with  each  other  b}*  a  most  com- 
plicated system  of  staircases,  inclined  planes, 
and  passages,  interrupted  by  massive  doors  and 
iron  gates.  A  causeway  of  black  stone  connects 
the  old  lazzaretto  with  the  new  one  and  with  the 
neighboring  island  on  which  the  prison  is  situated. 
The  chambers  where  we  were  lodged  were  lofts-, 
whitewashed  rooms,  with  glazed  tile  floors  imi- 
tating mosaic,  furnished  with  a  few  rush-seated 
chairs,  a  little  table,  a  wash-bowl  on  an  iron  stand. 
three  or  four  pairs  of  iron  trestles  supporting 


Il8  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

boards  on  which  are  laid  the  quarantine  mattresses 
— simple  canvas  bags  filled  with  dried  maize  husks. 
Our  attendants  were  fishermen,  who  volunteered 
their  services,  and  ran  the  risk  of  catching  all 
sorts  of  diseases  for  the  consideration  of  fifty 
cents  a  day  and  whatever  gratuities  the  victims  of 
quarantine  chose  to  give  them.  The  food,  sup- 
plied by  the  restaurant  of  the  lazzaretto  and 
served  in  the  chambers,  was  good,  but  very  dear 
for  the  country  —  $2  a  day  for  two  meals  and 
coffee  in  the  morning. 

The  rooms,  it  is  true,  were  of  monastic  simplic- 
ity, and  the  whole  place  smelt  overpoweringly 
of  phenol,  but  each  room  had  a  casement  win- 
dow opening  on  balconies  overhanging  the  sea 
and  commanding  a  delicious  view.  On  one  side 
you  see  Pozzuoli ;  a  picturesque  rock  covered 
with  w'hite  and  red  houses,  and  in  the  back- 
ground a  line  of  hills  which  in  the  course  of  the 
day  passes  through  the  most  varied  shades  of 
gray  and  blue  and  rose.  On  the  other  side,  you 
look  across  the  extreme  breadth  of  the  gulf  of 
Naples  as  far  as  Sorrento  and  Capri.  If  one  were 
only  free  it  would  be  delightful  to  wander  about 
this  island,  to  admire  the  panorama  of  the  sur- 
rounding scenery,  and  to  marvel  at  the  blueness 
of  the  ]\Iediterranean,  which  washes  its  shores, 
and  displays,  through  the  pellucid  mirror  of  its 
waters,  its  bed  covered  with  myriads  of  sea-plants 
which  glisten  in  the  brilliant  sunlight  like  silvery 


A  TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  II9 

flowers.  So  strong  is  the  light  and  so  clear  the 
water  that  from  the  height  of  our  balcony,  a  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  water,  we  could  see  the  bot- 
tom of  the  bay  with  its  carpet  of  anemones  and 
weeds. 

Still,  in  spite  of  our  captivity,  we  were  not  ab- 
solutely wretched.  The  band  to  which  I  belonged 
comprised  some  twenty  people,  including  a  Sicil- 
ian who  was  an  excellent  conjuror  and  a  fair 
guitariste;  three  Milanese  ladies  who  sang  like 
nightingales ;  a  retired  French  gendarme  who 
passed  his  time  in  dangling  his  feet  in  the  sea 
with  a  view  to  dissolving  his  corns,  and  in  fur- 
bishing his  threadbare  frockcoat  with  an  old 
tooth-brush  ;  a  Parisian  familiar  with  the  reper- 
tory of  the  cafe's-concerts ;  a  ballerina  from  the 
San  Carlo  theatre  who  had  been  fulfilling  an  en- 
gagement  in  Paris,  and  whom  I  had  frequently 
applauded  at  the  Eden  The'atre  from  a  stall  in 
the  front  row — an  excellent  introduction,  as  you 
may  well  imagine — the  mother  of  the  ballerina, 
and  half  a  score  ragged  Italian  peasant  people 
who  adapted  themselves  to  our  society  with  that 
easy  but  never  disagreeable  familiarity  which 
characterizes  the  Latins. 

Before  we  had  been  on  the  island  an  hour  we 
were  all  good  friends  ;  and,  after  a  little  excus- 
able lamentation,  we  determined  to  make  the 
best  of  our  lot  and  to  open  communications  with 
the  mainland.     In  these  negotiations  the  ballerina 


120  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

was  most  successful,  and  through  her  friends  in 
Naples  we  were  supplied  with  playing-cards,  gui- 
tars, castagnettes,  tobacco,  and  edible  delicacies. 
Thanks  to  dancing,  singing,  and  smoking,  we 
passed  the  time  almost  gayly;  we  organized  all 
kinds  of  games ;  we  were  allowed  during  exer- 
cise hours  to  jump  off  the  quay  and  swim  about 
the  bay  within  certain  limits  and  under  the  eye 
of  sentries  armed  with  guns ;  we  were  even  al- 
lowed to  dive  for  sea-urchins,  but  for  this  a  spe- 
cial permission  had  to  be  obtained,  because  the 
sentries  did  not  like  to  lose  sight  of  us,  even  for 
a  few  seconds.  Of  these  amusements,  of  the 
splendid  sunlight,  of  the  heat  always  tempered  by 
the  sea  air,  of  the  thrumming  of  the  guitars,  of 
the  whirling  wildness  of  the  tarantella,  of  the  soft 
Italian  songs  that  floated  through  the  air  at  night- 
fall, of  the  distant  cries  of  the  fishermen  crossing 
the  bay,  of  this  whole  week  of  pure  animal  life, 
I  have  a  souvenir  that  will  be  readily  compre- 
hended by  those  who  have  had  the  misfortune,  or 
perhaps  we  should  say  the  privilege,  to  be  isolated 
for  a  time  from  ordinary  life,  to  be  deprived  of 
all  possibility  of  initiative,  and  reduced  to  the 
necessity  of  merely  living  on  one's  own  resources 
and  on  those  of  chance  companions.  The  feeling 
of  irritation  soon  disappears,  especially  in  favor- 
able conditions  of  climate  ;  one  becomes  resigned 
to  one's  fate ;  and,  as  long  as  deep  ennui  "can  be 
avoided,  the  mere  vegetative  or  lizard-like  exis- 


A   TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  121 

tence  offers  certain  positive  joys.  Nevertheless, 
in  spite  of  our  gay  philosophy  and  our  indefatiga- 
ble guitars,  we  could  not  forget  that  we  were 
prisoners.  We  could  not  help  regarding  our- 
selves, and  especially  each  batch  of  new-comers, 
with  distrust,  fearing  every  moment  that  cholera 
might  break  out  among  us.  The  lazzaretto,  too, 
soon  began  to  fill  up.  Every  day  three  or  four 
ships  deposited  a  score  or  two  of  passengers,  who 
were  stowed  away  in  separate  buildings  under 
special  guardians.  Finally,  on  the  day  we  w-ere 
liberated,  some  500  men,  women,  and  children 
were  crowded  together  like  cattle  on  this  little 
island,  and  our  suspense  had  become  more  and 
more  trying,  for,  until  the  eve  of  our  liberation,  we 
did  not  know  whether  we  were  to  be  imprisoned 
for  ten,  twenty,  or  thirty  days. 

I  need  not  say  how  great  was  our  delight  and 
how  boisterous  our  manifestations  of  joy  when 
we  took  leave  of  the  director  of  the  lazzaretto, 
and  set  foot  on  the  mainland  at  the  little  village 
of  Coroglio,  where  carriages  were  in  waiting  to 
convey  us  to  Naples,  and  where  I  was  taken 
charge  of  by  the  most  amiable  and  vivacious  of 
Neapolitan  hostesses,  who  had  brought  her  whole 
family  to  welcome  the  long-expected  prisoner. 

What  a  delightful  driv^e  it  was  through  a  most 
beautiful  and  fertile  stretch  of  country,  rich  in 
vines,  olives,  fig-trees,  and  maize  fields  !  And 
how  curious  the  suave  contessina  was  to  know 


122  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

how  I  had  fared  in  that  dreadful  lazzaretto  !  And 
how  glad  I  was  to  reach  her  house  on  the  Riviera 
di  Chiaja,  and  how  confused  by  the  rattling  of  the 
carriage  over  the  pavement,  by  the  swarming,  pict- 
uresque crowd  of  men  and  animals,  and  by  the 
deafening  din  of  chattering  and  shouting  that 
filled  the  streets  !  After  the  calm  of  Nissida  the 
animation  of  Naples  on  this  sunny  July  morning 
was  simply  bewildering. 

"  But  what  a  strange  idea,"  I  hear  the  reader 
exclaim — "  what  a  strange  idea  to  go  to  Naples  in 
July !  The  heat  must  be  terrible  !"  On  the  con- 
trary, the  heat  is  delicious,  because  it  is  always  tem- 
pered by  the  sea-breeze,  and  never  stuffy  and  op- 
pressive like  the  heat  of  London  or  of  Paris.  The 
room  where  I  was  lodged,  in  a  house  on  the  Chiaja, 
within  a  stone's-throw  of  the  sea,  was  as  cool  and 
airy  as  one  could  wish,  and,  through  an  opening 
in  the  light-green  Venetian  shutters,  I  had  a  match- 
less view  over  the  glistening  waters  of  the  bay ; 
to  the  left,  the  slope  of  Vesuvius  dotted  with 
the  white  and  rose  and  blue  cottages  of  Castella- 
mare  and  Sorrento;  to  the  right,  the  heights  of 
Posilippo  covered  with  villas  and  verdure  of  rich, 
fresh  green  ;  in  front,  the  blue  sea  and  the  island 
of  Capri ;  overhead,  a  sky  of  the  purest  and  most 
luminous  blueness.  The  Riviera  itself  is  the 
Champs  Elys^es  of  Naples — a  series  of  gardens  and 
avenues  and  promenades  running  along  the  sea- 
shore ;  the  Rotten  Row  of  the  city,  where,  between 


A   TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  1 23 

six  and  eight  in  the  evening,  all  the  Neapolitan 
swells  come  to  see  and  to  be  seen,  in  more  or  less 
elegant  equipages,  and  with  a  grand  display  of 
coachmen  and  footmen  in  livery.  What  more 
could  one  desire  ?  The  first  ten  days  that  I 
passed  at  Naples  were  charming.  In  the  morn- 
ing we  used  to  take  a  boat,  pull  out  into  the  bay, 
and  bathe.  A  stroll  in  the  public  gardens  car- 
ried us  on  to  breakfast.  Our  hostess,  a  lover  of 
music,  seemed  always  to  have  a  selection  of 
maestri  at  her  feet,  and  the  afternoon  passed 
rapidly  until  it  was  time  to  change  our  coats  for 
the  promenade.  When  the  sun  began  to  sink 
the  contessina's  landau  arrived  at  the  door;  the 
horses  were  lanky-looking  beasts,  but  full  of  life, 
and  brilliantly  harnessed  with  a  profusion  of  gilt 
trappings  ;  the  coachman,  with  his  gray  tweed 
livery  and  gray  hat  with  a  blue  cockade,  had  the 
stiffness  and  angularity  of  his  Anglo-Saxon  col- 
leagues ;  the  reins  and  whip  were  decorated  with 
gay  wool  pompons ;  and  the  whole  turn-out  had  a 
dash  of  color  and  gaudiness  which  seemed  thor- 
oughly in  harmony  with  the  Southern  climate 
where  we  were,  and  where  a  rose-colored  house 
with  ultramarine  window-shades  does  not  shock 
the  eye,  so  intense  is  the  light  and  so  great  its 
harmonizing  influence.  After  the  promenade 
came  dinner  and  more  music  and  more  maestri, 
with  beautifully  combed  hair,  glossy  moustaches, 
and  immense  black  eyes,  and  then  we  would  sit 


124 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


on  the  balcony  in  the  moonlight,  and  need  no 
shawls  or  wrappers,  as  in  Northern  summer  resorts 
with  their  treacherous  and  chilly  evenings.  To 
my  mind,  Naples  in  July  is  perfectly  agreeable  as 
far  as  climate  is  concerned. 

However,  it  is  not  my  object  to  defend  Naples. 
I  found  it  agreeable,  and,  above  all,  I  found  the 
Neapolitan  cuisine^  as  served  at  the  contessina's 
table,  very  delicate  and  erudite.  Great  dishes  here 
are  fresh  anchovies,  alice,  which  you  hear  cried  all 
over  the  town ;  little  fat  oysters,  which  cost  six- 
pence a  dozen ;  cucumber  flowers,  culled  when 
the  fruit  is  just  forming,  and  fried  in  oil,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  flour;  gourds  cut  into  chips  and 
fried  in  the  same  way ;  and,  above  all,  a  shell-fish 
soup  which  I  recommend  to  gourmets.  The 
preface  of  this  gastronomic  poem  is  a  coiclis  of 
smooth-leaved  parsley  fried  in  oil,  or  in  butter  if 
you  dislike  oil ;  to  this  basis  you  add  tomatoes, 
already  well-boiled  and  drained :  this  mixture  is 
gently  boiled,  and  hot  water  added  to  produce  the 
necessary  quantity  of  bouillon.  Then  the  shell- 
fish— which  have  in  the  meantime  been  opened 
by  being  thrown  into  hot  water — are  added  to  the 
boiling  bouillon,  and  the  whole  allowed  to  simmer 
gently.  The  soup  thus  decocted  is  poured  into  a 
tureen,  garnished  with  croustades  of  white  bread 
fried  golden  brown  in  oil  or  butter,  and  so  served 
hot  and  savory.  The  shell-fish  used  here  are 
small  cockles  and  other  flat  coquillages  of  similar 


A  TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  1 25 

kind.  The  parsley  is  not  chopped  fine — the 
leaves  are  simply  divided  and  float  temptingly 
in  the  bouillon ;  the  only  seasoning  required  is 
pepper. 

While  I  am  still  on  the  subject  of  the  table  I 
must  reveal  the  secret  of  a  salad  which  our  amia- 
ble hostess  prepared  for  us  with  her  own  white 
hands.  Take  sufficient  of  sweet  pimentoes  cut 
into  thick  slices,  of  tomatoes  sliced  similarly,  of 
black  olives,  and  of  capers ;  season  with  salt 
and  pepper ;  add  slices  of  preserved  anchovies, 
oil,  and  wine  vinegar ;  turn  the  whole  diligently ; 
eat,  digest,  and  be  happy.  This  invigorating  and 
refreshing  salad  is  most  appropriately  named  rin- 
forza. 

Leaving  out  of  the  question  the  luxurious  exist- 
ence of  the  local  aristocracy  and  of  the  cosmo- 
politan population  of  visitors,  the  civilization  of 
Naples  may  be  said  to  have  remained  stationary 
since  the  Middle  Ages.  The  old  town  is  a  net- 
work of  narrow  streets  scarcely  wider  than  those 
of  Pompeii,  and  running  up  and  down  the  three 
hills  of  Saint  Elmo,  Capo  di  Monte,  and  Pizzafal- 
cone.  Many  of  these  streets  are  interrupted  by 
flights  of  steps,  and  available  only  for  foot  or 
donkey  traffic ;  others  wind  about  under  arches 
and  vaults  ;  and  all  are  lined  with  lofty  houses  of 
gray,  white,  rose,  or  yellow  color,  with  green  Vene- 
tian shutters  and  balconies.  The  ground  floor  is 
invariably  occupied  by  little  shops,  and  the  upper 


126  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

rooms  are  dwellings.  A  more  busy,  varied,  and 
amusing  scene  than  one  of  these  narrow  streets 
cannot  be  imagined.  At  the  corner  you  invariably 
find  a  water-seller,  installed  at  a  little  counter 
decorated  with  shining  brass  ornaments  and  pro- 
vided with  piles  of  lemons,  half  a  dozen  bottles  of 
anisette,  absinthe,  and  other  liquors,  stone  demi- 
johns containing  ferruginous,  sulphurous,  and 
other  waters,  and,  at  each  end,  two  slender  bar- 
rels swinging  on  pivots  and  containing  fresh 
water  kept  deliciously  cool  by  a  casing  of  snow 
brought  from  the  neighboring  mountains.  The 
aqua  fresca  sold  at  these  innumerable  street-stalls 
is  delicious,  and,  with  the  addition  of  two  or  three 
drops  of  anisette,  forms  the  favorite  drink  of  the 
Neapolitans.  Entering  the  street,  we  find  a  most 
motley  crowd  of  hawkers  of  all  kinds,  some  carry- 
ing their  wares  on  their  heads,  and  others  accom- 
panied by  donkeys  or  mules  laden  with  tomatoes, 
green  figs,  plums,  and  other  fruits  and  vegetables, 
shaded  by  waving  green  branches.  The  street- 
hawker  is  so  deeply  rooted  an  institution  at  Naples 
that  he  has  been  able  to  ruin  a  company  which 
went  to  great  expense  to  provide  the  city  with 
elegant  iron  markets  like  those  of  Paris.  These 
markets,  situated  in  various  quarters  of  the  town, 
failed  utterly,  and  are  now  employed  for  riding- 
schools  and  other  uses.  The  Neapolitan  house- 
wife insists  on  being  served  at  her  door,  or  rather 
at  her  window,  from  which  she  lowers  a  basket 


A   TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  127 

attached  to  a  rope,  and  bargains  furiously  over 
two  sous'  worth  of  plums.     This  constant  lower- 
ing of  baskets  from  balconies  shaded  by  flaming 
ultramarine  blinds  and  draped  with  the  family 
washing  hung  out  to  dry  adds  greatly  to  the  amus- 
ing aspect  of  the  streets.     Then,  in  the  morning 
and  afternoon,  the  streets  are  encumbered  by  herds 
of  goats  and  cows,  led  two  by  two  with  ropes. 
Both  cows  and  goats  have  bells  at  their  necks, 
and  are  milked  in  the  presence  of  the  consumer. 
The  goats  even  walk  up  the  staircases  of  the 
houses,  and  deliver  their  milk  literally  at  the  door, 
whether  it  be  on  the  second  floor  or  on  the  fifth. 
Where  the  streets  are  broad  enough,  they  are 
crowded  with  carts  of  the  most  primitive  con- 
struction, drawn  by  queer  combinations  of  mules 
and  donkeys  and  bullocks,  often  three  abreast  and 
one  of  each  kind.    The  animal  between  the  shafts 
has  always  a  saddle  rising  high  in  the  air  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  profusion  of  brass  ornaments,  in- 
cluding two  or  three  weathercocks,  which  spin 
round  as  he  advances,  and  which  in  their  turn  are 
surmounted  by  a  horn,  or  a  brass  hand  with  the 
index  and  little  finger  extended  so  as  to  form  the 
horns  which  are  supposed  to  avert  \.\\q  Jeitatura, 
or  evil  eye.     No  man,  woman,  or  child  in  Naples 
is  without  a  talisman  of  some  kind ;  the  house- 
fronts  are  covered  Avith  horns  of  all  kinds,  and 
often  you  will  see  hung  over  doors  and  windows 
an  inflated  black  glove,  with  the  index  and  little 


128  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

finger  extended  in  the  required  position.  At  Na- 
ples superstition  still  retains  strong  hold,  and, 
besides  the  horns  to  avert  the  evil  eye,  every 
dwelling  is  provided  with  an  image  of  the  Ma- 
donna, before  which  a  lamp  is  kept  burning  night 
and  day ;  and  all  along  the  streets  you  will  see 
images  and  pictures  of  saints  in  niches,  with  lit- 
tle lamps  burning  before  them.  In  the  room 
where  I  was  living  there  were,  besides  the  Madon- 
na with  her  lamp,  three  other  images  of  saints : 
namely,  Saint  Gennaro,  Saint  Antonino,  and  Saint 
Joseph,  to  say  nothing  of  a  gorgeous  company  of 
dressed  dolls  representing  the  Nativity ;  while  on 
the  landing  was  an  oil-painting  of  the  Crucifixion, 
before  which  a  lamp  was  kept  burning  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  tenants  of  the  flat. 

It  is  hopeless  to  attempt  to  convey  in  words  an 
idea  of  the  animation  of  these  little  streets. 
Besides  the  curious  crowd  of  shouting  hawkers 
and  chattering  passengers,  and  vehicles  and  cat- 
tle, there  are  swarms  of  children,  who  in  these 
warm  summer  days  are  often  allowed  to  run 
about  stark  naked.  And  beautiful  little  creatures 
many  of  them  are,  with  their  bronzed  skins,  their 
regular  features,  and  their  large,  soft  eyes !  Then, 
again,  everybody  lives  in  the  street.  The  little 
shops  are  so  entirely  taken  up  by  the  broad 
family  beds  that  there  is  no  room  left  to  move 
about,  and  the  merchandise  is  displayed  in  the 
street.     The  shoemaker  works  in  the  street,  sur- 


A   TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  129 

rounded  by  his  women-kind ;  the  tailor  sits  cross- 
legged  on  the  footpath ;  the  housewife  peels  her 
potatoes  on  the  footpath.  At  night  the  gossip- 
ing and  card-playing  and  eating  and  drinking  all 
go  on  in  the  street.  The  whole  life  of  the  town 
is  out  of  doors  ;  but  it  is  neither  indolent  nor 
squalid.  On  the  contrary,  each  of  the  little  shops 
is  the  scene  of  indefatigable  and  cheerful  indus- 
try ;  and  both  the  men  and  the  women  wear  clean 
linen.  The  modern  Neapolitan,  far  from  being 
indolent  and  squalid,  seems  to  me  rather  to  merit 
the  titles  of  frugal  and  industrious.  Why,  then, 
it  may  be  asked,  does  he  remain  poor }  Because 
the  civilization  of  the  city  has  not  progressed 
with  the  age.  At  Naples  the  trades  are  carefully 
separated  and,  to  a  great  extent,  confined  to  cer- 
tain quarters.  One  quarter  of  the  town  is  inhab- 
ited almost  exclusively  by  coppersmiths,  another 
by  wheelwrights,  another  by  cabinet-makers, 
another  by  shoemakers,  and  so  forth.  As  a  final 
trait  of  the  simplicity  of  manners  and  customs,  I 
will  mention  a  curious  scene  which  I  witnessed 
one  afternoon.  At  the  end  of  a  small  square 
surrounded  by  lofty  and  irregular  house-fronts 
were  ranged  four  long  benches  forming  a  square. 
Some  fifty  men  and  women  were  seated  on  these 
benches,  and  in  the  middle  a  bronzed,  black-haired 
man,  with  a  long  black  moustache  and  lantern 
jaws,  was  reading  aloud,  out  of  a  thin,  double- 
column    folio,  an   Italian    translation    of    "The 

9 


130  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

Three  Musketeers."  This  man's  trade,  I  was 
told,  is  to  read  aloud,  and  he  receives  two  cen- 
times, or  less  than  half  a  cent,  from  each  person 
who  sits  on  his  benches,  and  nothing  from  the 
outside  listeners  who  remain  standing.  I  can 
assure  you  Alexandre  Dumas  never  had  a  better 
reader  or  a  more  attentive  audience. 

The  resistance  of  the  people  to  exterior  influ- 
ences, the  preservation  of  native  habits,  the  cus- 
toms, the  conditions  of  existence,  and  even  the 
humor  of  the  inhabitants — such  are  the  phenome- 
na that  seem  to  me  most  curious  and  attractive  to 
the  wanderer  in  foreign  lands.  Nowhere  has  the 
national  character  persisted  as  it  has  at  Naples. 
In  spite  of  the  cosmopolitan  stamp  which  the 
presence  of  tourists  has  impressed  on  certain 
quarters  of  the  town,  the  main  portion  has  escaped 
entirely  all  foreign  contact.  In  the  narrow  streets 
of  old  Naples  the  people  retain  the  ancient  ges- 
tures, the  ancient  habits,  the  ancient  language ; 
they  are  a  ragged,  laughing,  singing  people,  whose 
sole  object  in  life  is  to  enjoy  life.  The  gayety  of 
Naples  is  perhaps  its  most  striking  characteristic ; 
it  is  a  spontaneous,  instinctive  gayety  like  that  of 
young  animals  ;  in  Naples  you  never  see  that  ex- 
pression of  fatigue,  gloom,  sadness,  and  despair 
which  you  remark  on  the  faces  of  the  lower  classes 
in  Paris  or  other  Northern  towns ;  the  Neapolitans 
are  vivacious,  careless  and  expansive  ;  they  seem 
happy  to  dwell  in  the  finest  spot  on  earth,  and 


A   TRIP  TO   NAPLES.  131 

they  express  their  joy  by  an  intensity  of  move- 
ment and  noise  and  an  exuberance  of  gestures 
quite  unparalleled.  The  very  houses  seem  to  be 
animated  and  swarming  with  teeming  life.  In  no 
other  city  in  Europe  do  you  obtain  this  idea  of 
mere  abounding  life  which  the  streets  and  quays 
of  Naples  offer.  There  is  life  at  every  step  ; 
from  the  house-tops  to  the  door-step  you  find 
noisy  manifestations  of  vivacious  humanity ;  the 
streets  and  the  quays  literally  ferment  with  busy 
life ;  even  the  vast  expanse  of  the  bay  is  thickly 
dotted  with  humanity  afloat,  chattering,  singing, 
thrumming  guitars,  joking,  finding  amusement  in 
the  mere  act  of  living,  moving,  and  making  a  noise. 
Naples  has  hardly  any  monuments.  The  va- 
rious mighty  nations  who  have  successively  oc- 
cupied the  city — Greeks,  Oscans,  Romans,  Goths, 
Byzantines,  Normans,  Germans,  and  Spaniards — 
have  left  no  palaces  or  castles  or  churches  that 
attract  the  visitor's  eye.  The  street  architecture 
has  no  particular  character.  The  general  aspect 
of  the  city  is  without  splendor.  The  main  charm 
of  the  place  is  its  unique  situation  and  its  splen- 
did bay.  The  visitor  to  Naples,  therefore,  natu- 
rally spends  most  of  his  time  in  making  excursions 
around  the  bay.  In  whatever  direction  he  goes  he 
will  find  a  lavish  display  of  the  gifts  of  nature 
which  amply  compensates  for  the  paltriness  of  the 
works  of  man.  All  around  Naples  the  scenery 
of  mountain,  valley,  and  plain  is  magnificent,  and 


132  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

the  fertility  is  incredible.  You  can  hardly  under- 
stand how,  in  this  country,  where  in  the  summer 
rain  does  not  fall  for  months  together,  the  verd- 
ure can  remain  so  luxuriant  and  so  fresh,  whereas 
in  the  comparatively  damp  and  Northern  climates 
of  France  and  England  the  verdure  loses  all  its 
freshness  before  midsummer.  The  explanation 
is  the  lightness  of  the  volcanic  soil,  v/hich  permits 
the  vines,  for  instance,  to  strike  their  roots  as 
much  as  forty  feet  into  the  earth.  One  never 
tires  of  admiring  the  orange  and  the  lemon  trees 
weighed  down  with  their  golden  fruit,  the  fig- 
trees  black  with  figs,  the  groves  of  olives,  of 
pomegranates,  of  mulberries,  and  of  all  kinds  of 
fruit-trees,  bearing  with  an  abundance  which  we 
rarely  see  in  the  North.  Here,  too,  the  vines 
grow  as  Virgil  describes  them,  hanging  in  festoons 
from  tree  to  tree.  The  whole  country  around 
the  Bay  of  Naples  is  a  truly  patriarchal  land,  rich 
in  wine  and  oil,  a  land  of  peaceful  happiness, 
with  overhead  a  cloudless  sky,  and  before  you  the 
vast  blue  gulf  dotted  with  beautiful  islands. 

Naples  itself,  I  must  confess,  is  not  wholly  a 
paradise.  The  port  and  the  parts  around  the 
port  are  dirty  and  foul-smelling,  and  the  part  of 
the  bay  between  Naples  and  Torre  del  Greco  is 
a  dirty  and  dusty  manufacturing  quarter,  occupied 
by  iron-works,  tanneries,  and  macaroni  manufac- 
tories. It  is  by  traversing  this  horrible  suburb 
that  you  begin  one  of  the  most  charming  excur- 


A   TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  I33 

sions  that  can  be  made — a  moonlight  drive  half 
round  the  Bay  of  Naples.  The  first  ten  miles 
of  the  journey  is  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  You 
imagine  that  you  are  going  to  be  driven  along 
the  seashore,  and  instead  you  go  jolting  through 
dirty  suburbs,  with  macaroni  hung  out  to  dry  on 
bamboo  canes  on  each  side  of  the  road.  As  you 
approach  Torre  Annunziata  the  houses  become 
less  and  less  substantial,  the  people  look  less  hap- 
py, and  on  all  sides  you  see  a  profusion  of  images 
of  the  Madonna,  with  lamps  burning  before  them, 
in  niches.  All  the  walls  are  covered  with  crosses 
drawn  in  whitewash.  We  are  here  on  the  terri- 
tory of  Vesuvius,  the  terrible  burning  mountain 
which  we  see  blazing  intermittently  at  no  great 
distance,  and  which  has  time  after  time  inundated 
with  burning  lava  the  ground  over  which  we  are 
travelling.  In  the  moonlight  w^e  can  distinguish 
the  various  lava  streams  that  have  rolled  down 
the  mountain  and  remain  still  in  rugged  and 
strangely  contorted  sooty  wastes,  like  a  raging 
mountain  torrent  petrified  in  its  tumultuous  mo- 
tion. 

At  Castellamare,  where  Pliny,  the  naturalist, 
perished  while  observing  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius, 
the  scenery  begins  to  be  ideal.  Henceforward, 
until  we  reach  Sorrento,  no  words  can  describe 
the  calm  beauty  of  the  spectacle  presented  to  the 
eye.  The  road  winds  along  the  base  of  the 
mountains  which  form  the  amphitheatre  of  the 


134  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

bay  and  which  rise  up  rugged  and  precipitous  on 
one  side  of  the  road,  while  on  the  other  side  are 
gardens  and  orange  groves  sloping  gently  down 
to  the  sea.  All  along  this  road,  for  some  fifteen 
miles,  you  enjoy  a  constant  view  of  the  immense 
Bay  of  Naples,  35  miles  broad.  You  see  its 
northwest  point.  Cape  INIisenum ;  the  islands  of 
Procida  and  Ischia ;  the  heights  of  Pozzuoli; 
Naples,  with  its  crown  of  lights ;  Vesuvius,  with 
its  red  cockade  of  fire ;  and,  southward,  the  beauti- 
ful island  of  Capri.  Whether  you  contemplate 
the  panorama  by  simlight  or  by  moonlight  it 
seems  so  beautiful,  so  poetical,  so  ideal  that  you 
can  hardly  believe  that  it  is  real  and  not  some 
magnificent  piece  of  theatrical  scenery. 

All  the  little  towns  and  villages  along  the  road 
are  delicious  places,  nestling  in  thick  groves  of 
oranges,  lemons,  pomegranates,  vines,  and  olives, 
ideally  peaceful  spots  which  in  the  old  Roman 
times  were  the  favorite  retreats  of  Augustus, 
Agrippa,  Antoninus  Pius,  and  other  great  and 
noble  persons,  and  which  are  now  the  resort  of 
the  elite  of  the  leisured  classes  of  all  nationalities. 
Sorrento,  in  particular,  is  largely  occupied  by  the 
English,  insomuch  that  most  of  the  shops  bear 
inscriptions  in  the  English  language. 

From  Sorrento  you  go  by  a  little  steamer  in  an 
hour  and  a  half  to  Capri,  where  Tiberius  built 
twelve  villas  and  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life. 
Earthquakes  have  considerably  changed  the  form 


A   TRIP    TO   NAPLES.  I35 

of  the  island  since  the  Roman  times.  The  pal- 
aces have  been  thrown  down  and  buried,  and  very 
little  remains  to  be  seen  in  the  way  of  monuments 
or  curiosities.  Modern  Capri  is  a  favorite  winter 
resort  for  the  delicate,  and  one  of  the  last  refuges 
of  the  artists  of  Italy,  who  have  been  successively 
driven  away  from  Florence  and  Rome  by  the  in- 
crease in  the  cost  of  living  due  to  the  presence 
of  the  court.  Capri  is  a  beautiful  and  sleepy 
earthly  paradise,  a  fertile  hill,  rising  out  of  the 
sea,  and  covered  with  fruit-trees  and  flowers  and 
little  stony  paths  that  lead  to  cosy  villas.  The 
climate  is  perfect.  Unlike  many  pleasant  places  in 
Italy,  Capri  is  absolutely  free  from  malaria.  The 
natural  charms  of  the  island,  its  singular  health- 
fulness,  and  its  out -of -the -world  position  have 
attracted  to  it,  besides  the  annual  immigration  of 
winter  visitors,  a  most  curious  cosmopolitan  colony 
of  permanent  residents — Englishmen,  Americans, 
Russians,  and  Germans  —  who  have  seen  much 
of  the  world,  men  who  have  been  in  wars  and 
duels,  retired  Don  Juans,  philosophers  who  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  blue  sky  and  the 
light  of  the  sun  are  the  two  things  most  essential 
to  happiness.  Several  of  these  waifs  of  civiliza- 
tion have  married,  either  regularly  or  irregularly, 
native  Capriote  women,  who  are  famous  for  their 
beauty  and  for  the  grace  of  their  forms  and  move- 
ments. In  short,  there  is  a  collection  of  queer 
Anglo-Saxon  characters  on  the  island  of  Capri 


136  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

which  deserves  to  be  carefully  studied.  At  Capri 
there  are  very  few  men.  The  population  consists 
mainly  of  women  and  girls,  for  many  of  the  men 
have  emigrated  to  South  America,  and  others  are 
absent  for  two  or  three  years  at  a  time  coral  fish- 
ing on  the  African  coast.  The  consequence  is 
that  all  the  work  of  the  island  is  done  by  women 
and  girls.  The  garden  and  field  work,  the  house- 
hold work,  and  all  the  carrying  is  done  by  girls. 
One  of  the  curious  and  beautiful  sights  of  Capri 
is  a  procession  of  ten  or  a  dozen  native  girls, 
dressed  in  gay-colored  robes,  walking  up  and 
down  the  hilly  paths  with  the  step  of  goddesses, 
each  balancing  a  burden  on  her  head,  a  pail  of 
water,  a  small  barrel  of  wine,  or  a  block  of  stone. 
All  the  material  for  house-building,  the  mortar, 
the  stones,  the  wood,  is  carried  into  position  by 
girls.  You  see  them  climbing  a  ladder,  with  a 
pail  of  mortar  on  their  heads,  with  a  gracefulness 
and  dignity  of  movement  which  reminds  you  of 
the  bas-reliefs  of  the  Parthenon  or  of  the  groups 
depicted  on  Greek  vases. 

In  spite  of  the  guide-books,  I  say  go  and  see 
this  country  in  the  summer  rather  than  in  the 
winter.  Do  your  carriage  travelling  in  early 
morning  and  by  moonlight,  and  vary  it  by  sailing- 
boats  and  steamers.  The  stories  about  the  great 
heat  which  is  supposed  to  rage  here  in  summer 
are  full  of  exaggeration,  and  contain  no  more 
truth  than  the  stories  about  the  squalidity  of  the 


A  TRIP   TO   NAPLES.  137 

Neapolitans  or  the  multiplicity  and  importunity 
of  the  native  beggars.  ]\Iy  summer  trip  to  the 
Bay  of  Naples  remains  the  most  delightful  ex- 
cursion I  have  ever  made — so  delightful,  indeed, 
that  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  was  not  dreaming. 


ART  NOTES  IN  MILAN. 

*'  Travelling,"  said  Madame  de  Stael,  is  one  of 
the  saddest  pleasures  in  life.  Crossing  unknown 
countries,  hearing  people  speak  a  language  which 
you  scarcely  understand,  and  seeing  human  faces 
without  any  relation  wiih  your  past  or  with  your 
future,  means  solitude  without  repose  and  isolation 
without  dignit}'.  This  zeal  and  this  haste  to  ar- 
rive at  a  place  where  nobody  expects  you,  this 
agitation  of  which  the  only  cause  is  curiosity,  in- 
spire us  with  but  little  esteem  for  ourselves."  I 
thought  of  this  remark  of  the  turbaned  blue- 
stocking as  I  sped,  one  morning,  through  the  en- 
trails of  Mont  Cenis,  eager  to  reach  Northern 
Italy,  and  to  see  all  those  marvels  of  painting,  of 
sculpture,  and  of  architecture  which  thousands 
had  seen  before  me  and  thousands  would  see 
after  me — those  masterpieces  of  art  which  are 
more  enduring  than  thrones  and  kingdoms,  and 
whose  glory  is  so  great  that  words  cannot  describe 
it.  And  it  was  precisely  this  greatness  of  the 
glory  of  the  masterpieces  of  art  which  seemed  to 
me  to  excuse  the  eagerness  which  I  felt  to  see 
them;  for  to  see  them  is  to  do  homage,  and  he 


ART   NOTES    IN    MILAN.  1 39 

that  does  homage  nobly  and  to  noble  idols  is 
edified  and  augments  his  happiness.  Madame 
de  Stael  was  afiBicted  with  excess  of  personality, 
and  this  is  the  reason  why  she  spoke  evil  of 
foreign  travel — that  most  delightful  process  of 
laying  in  store  of  souvenirs  and  fair  visions. 
Madame  de  Stael  was  unable  to  get  outside  of 
herself  and  become  a  mere  passive,  but  extreme- 
ly sensitive,  recijDient  of  perceptions,  otherwise 
she  would  not  have  been  embarrassed  with  her 
own  little  individuality  when  she  found  herself 
traversing  unknown  countries  where  every  tree, 
every  plough-boy,  and  every  sound  is  an  object  of 
interest,  or  contemplating  great  monuments  which 
have  immortalized  the  names  of  painters,  sculpt- 
ors, and  architects. 

Certainly  far  other  thoughts  were  mine  when 
I  jumped  out  of  the  train  at  Milan  station,  hur- 
riedly deposited  my  luggage  at  a  hotel,  and 
hailed  a  cab,  saying  to  the  coachman,  "  Santa 
Maria  delle  Grazie."  We  rode  through  well- 
paved  narrow  streets,  between  houses  whose  win- 
dows were  enveloped  in  white  exterior  curtains 
to  keep  out  the  heat ;  then  we  skirted  a  canal  bor- 
dered with  houses  and  gardens  like  the  canals 
in  Holland ;  here  and  there  through  a  broad 
archway  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cool  court- 
yards and  green  trees  of  the  palaces  of  the  rich  ; 
and  at  last  we  came  to  an  open  square,  at  one 
end  of  which  was  a  brick  church,  and  beside  it 


140  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

a  white-curtained  door  over  which  was  the  in- 
scription "  Cenacolo."  Pushing  the  curtain 
aside,  I  paid  my  franc,  passed  the  turnstile,  and 
there  I  was  in  presence  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci's 
famous  picture  "  The  Last  Supper,"  the  composi- 
tion of  which  everybody  knows,  thanks  to  Raphael 
Morghen's  excellent  engraving.  The  work  is  not 
a  fresco  painting,  but  an  oil-painting  on  a  plaster 
surface,  occupying  the  end  wall  of  the  refectory 
of  the  old  convent  of  St.  Mary  of  the  Graces,  at 
the  other  end  of  which  is  a  real  fresco  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion, by  Montorfano,  dated  1495.  This  refectory 
is  a  lofty,  bare  Gothic  room,  at  least  100  feet  long 
and  about  20  feet  broad,  with  lattice  windows 
away  up  at  the  top  under  the  ceiling.  The  floor 
is  paved  with  red  tiles.  The  side  walls,  as  well  as 
the  ceiling,  are  whitewashed,  except  at  the  two 
ends  where  remnants  of  decorative  painting  are 
rapidly  peeling  off.  Over  the  Leonardo  picture 
are  three  arched  compartments  with  remains  of 
frescoed  armorial  bearings ;  below  the  picture, 
in  the  middle,  a  bricked-up  door  cuts  into  it,  and 
the  rest  of  the  wall  is  simply  plastered  and  col- 
ored with  a  hideous  greenish  -  yellow  tint.  In 
front  of  the  picture  are  a  dozen  chairs  for  ad- 
mirers to  sit  upon,  and  half  a  dozen  fearful  copies 
and  reconstitutions  of  the  work  by  Milanese  art- 
ists, who  have  carelessly  left  their  visiting-cards 
on  the  shelves  of  their  easels  to  record  their  shame 
or  to  notify  their  address.     In  short,  this  great 


ART   NOTES   IN   MILAN.  14I 

monument  of  the  genius  of  Leonardo  is  exhibited 
to  strangers  by  the  Milanese  in  the  most  unfavor- 
able conditions  of  light  and  of  surroundings,  and 
one  wonders  what  becomes  of  the  thousands  of 
francs  which  are  paid  by  travellers  every  year  at 
the  turnstile  of  the  "  Cenacolo."      Surely  some 
part  of  this  revenue  might  be  devoted  to  arrang- 
ing the  refectory  more  decently,  or  at  least  to  giv- 
ing to  the  dirty  yellow  wall  beneath  the  picture 
a  coat  of  color  of  some  dark,  neutral  tint,  so  that 
the  composition  might  not  suffer  from  the  crude 
neighborhood  of  mouldering  and  leprous  white- 
wash.    Alas  !  time  has  been  very  cruel  to  Leo- 
nardo's vision,  and  damp  and  age  have  spotted  it 
with  scabs  and  scars  ;  but  the  hand  of  man  has 
been  still  more  cruel  than  time  in  repainting  the 
faces,  hands,  and  drapery  of  the  figures ;  and  the 
injuries  of  both  kinds  are  only  too  evident  in  the 
violent  light  that  streams  in  from  the  windows. 
"  The  Last  Supper  "  is  only  a  shadowy  remnant  of 
what  it  was,  and  yet,  in  spite  of  its  state  of  degrada- 
tion, it  requires  but  a  half-closing  of  the  eyes  and  a 
slight  effort  of  imagination  in  order  to  evoke  from 
the  ruin  an  image  of  the  splendid  harmony  of 
color  which  the  work  originally  must  have  pre- 
sented.    Leonardo  is  essentially  the  painter  of 
the  mysterious  and  of  the  ineffable.     His  paint- 
ing has  been  compared  to  music  in  a  minor  key. 
His  shadows  are  veils  which  he  thickens  or  half 
draws  aside  to  reveal  dimly  some  secret  thought, 


142  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

and-  time,  which  deteriorates  other  painting,  im- 
proves Leonardo's  because  it  deepens  the  harmo- 
nious shadow  in  which  he  loves  to  plunge.  The 
first  impression  of  this  picture,  when  one  half 
closes  one's  eyes  and  voluntarily  abstracts  the 
white  specks  where  the  paint  has  peeled  off  and 
left  bare  the  plaster,  is  as  it  were  of  a  dream 
floatins:  on  the  surface  of  the  wall.  "  It  is  the 
shade  of  a  painting,"  said  Theophile  Gautier, 
"the  spectre  of  a  masterpiece."  In  the  middle 
of  the  table  is  Christ,  having  on  his  right  St.  John, 
with  features  of  almost  feminine  delicacy,  and  on 
his  left  Judas,  with  curly  hair,  base  profile,  and 
finger  uplifted  in  self-disculpation.  The  disciples, 
seated  or  standing  along  the  three  sides  of  the 
table,  are  arranged  in  groups  of  three,  two  groups 
on  each  side  of  the  Saviour,  thus  forming  the 
traditional  and  still  superstitiously  dreaded  thir- 
teen at  table.  In  the  coloration,  which  we  may 
regard  as  a  memorandum  of  the  original,  and 
which  we  can  confirm  from  an  examination  of 
the  thirty  or  forty  old  copies  of  "  The  Last  Supper  " 
existing  in  Italy,  France,  and  Germany,  blues  and 
reds  predominate  on  a  warm,  neutral  gray  ground. 
The  light  comes  from  the  window  at  the  back  of 
the  principal  figure,  and  through  the  opening  is 
seen  a  crepuscular  landscape  of  green  fields,  deep 
blue  hills,  and  a  sky  paling  in  the  twilight.  The 
impression  is  one  of  divine  melancholy  and  ten- 
der, harmonious  calm — an  effect  due  to  the  ex- 


ART   NOTES   IN   MILAN.  I43 

pression  of  the  head  of  the  Saviour,  and  to  the 
calmness  of  the  evening  landscape.  It  will  be 
remarked  that  the  prodigious  composition  of 
this  work  is  reasoned  out  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
concentrate  our  attention  first  on  the  figure  of  the 
Saviour  and  secondly  on  that  of  his  betrayer  ;  for 
the  heads  and  figures  of  all  the  other  apostles 
are  set  off  against  the  neutral  background  of 
the  wall  of  the  room,  while  St.  John  is  made  to 
lean  away  from  Christ  in  order  to  leave  more  of 
the  distant  landscape  visible.  The  silvery  blue 
light  of  this  calm  evening  prospect  fascinates  the 
eye  at  once  and  leads  it  to  the  figure  of  which 
this  suave  scenery  forms,  as  it  were,  a  tranquil 
aureole,  namely,  the  figure  of  Christ.  Next  we 
notice  Judas,  over  the  top  of  whose  head  we  see 
once  more  the  pure,  calm  sky ;  and  next  the  lu- 
minous horizon  line  of  the  distant  blue  hills 
catches  our  eye,  and  leads  it  to  the  figure  of  the 
beloved  disciple,  St.  John,  Then  the  composi- 
tion descends  at  a  gentle  perspective  angle  on 
each  side  of  the  picture,  and  shows  us  the  other 
disciples  with  animated  gestures  and  expressions, 
while  familiar  objects  scattered  over  the  table- 
cloth complete  the  idea  of  the  scene  and  astonish 
us  by  the  delicacy  with  which,  all  patches  as  they 
are,  they  play  into  the  general  harmony  of  this 
wonderful  masterpiece  of  human  genius.  One 
cannot  conceive  anything  more  beautiful  and 
more  impressive.  But  remark  that  what  we  sincere- 


144  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

ly  admire  in  this  "  Last  Supper  "  are  only  the  com- 
position and  the  impressiveness  and  animation 
which  are  due  to  the  grouped  action  and  to  the 
individual  gestures  of  the  figures  portrayed;  for 
probably  the  only  fragment  of  this  pseudo-fresco 
in  which  the  handiwork  of  Leonardo  remains  un- 
desecrated  by  the  restorer's  brush  is  the  sky  and 
blue  landscape  seen  through  the  window  at  the 
back.  Finished  in  1498,  this  picture  was  already 
half  effaced  in  1540,  and  in  1560  Lomazzo  de- 
scribes it  as  having  lost  its  color  so  far  that  the 
outlines  alone  of  the  figures  were  still  visible. 
The  Carthusian  monk  Sanese  says  that  there  was 
hardly  anything  of  the  picture  to  be  seen  in  1624. 
In  1652  the  Dominican  fathers  had  a  doorway 
cut  through  the  centre  of  the  picture,  thus  sacri- 
ficing the  legs  of  the  central  figures  and  a  part 
of  the  table-cloth,  as  the  visitor  still  sees  ;  and 
the  same  Dominicans  in  1726  had  the  whole  pict- 
ure restored  by  one  Bellotti,  who,  as  Stendhal  says 
in  his  "  Histoire  de  la  Peinture  en  Italic,"  "  dared  to 
repaint  in  its  entirety  Vinci's  picture,  hidden  be- 
hind a  screen  of  canvas.  Afterwards  he  uncov- 
ered the  picture  and  showed  it  to  the  stupid 
monks,  who  marvelled  at  the  powerfulness  of  his 
secret  for  reviving  colors.  The  only  portion  which 
he  respected  was  the  sky,  whose  truly  divine 
transparency  he  seemingly  despaired  of  imitat- 
ing with  his  coarse  colors.  The  amusing  part  of 
this  misadventure,"  adds  Stendhal,  "is  that  the 


ART   NOTES    IN   MILAN.  145 

connoisseurs  still  continued  to  praise  the  grace 
and  delicacy  of  Leonardo's  brush.  A  M.  Cochin, 
an  artist  justly  esteemed  at  Paris,  found  this  pict- 
ure to  be  very  much  in  the  taste  of  Raphael." 
Even  nowadays  you  may  still  hear  visitors  going 
into  ecstasies  over  the  "  rich  and  soft  color " 
and  the  "mellow  harmony,"  although  the  colors 
that  we  now  see  are  not  even  those  of  Bellotti, 
for  the  picture  was  again  repainted  in  1770  by  a 
barbarian  named  ]\Iazza,  who  began  his  work  by 
scraping  out  what  remained  of  Leonardo's  color 
with  a  chimney  sweep's  iron  scraper.  In  1796 
some  French  dragoons  who  had  their  quarters  in 
this  refectory  amused  themselves  by  "shying" 
bricks  at  the  heads  of  the  apostles.  In  iSoo  an 
inundation  left  a  foot  of  water  in  the  room,  and 
this  water  remained  there  until  it  evaporated. 
The  wonder  is  that,  after  encountering  such  a 
series  of  disasters,  there  should  remain  of  the 
original  picture  even  a  patch  of  landscape  and 
sky  and  the  mutilated  and  phantom  forms  of  the 
figures. 

After  admiring  Leonardo's  masterpiece  I  went 
to  the  famous  Ambrosian  Library,  not  only  to  see 
more  work  by  the  master,  but  first  of  all  to  see 
the  color  of  the  hair  of  Lucrezia  Borgia.  The 
written  documents  of  history  and  the  graphic 
souvenirs  of  painters  and  sculptors  have  be- 
queathed to  us  the  memories  of  many  women, 
whose  vanished  beauty  or  whose  legendary  fasci- 
10 


146  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

nation  haunts  our  minds  and  makes  us  eternally 
regret  the  backward  limit  of  life  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  returning  into  the  limbo  of  the  past. 
What  was  she  like,  this  Lucrezia  ?  What  was  the 
sound  of  her  voice  ?  What  the  fascination  of  her 
smile  ?  What  the  majesty  of  her  presence  ?  In 
these  musty  and  unhandsome  rooms  of  the  old 
Ambrosian  Library,  in  the  paltriest  glass  cases 
that  can  be  imagined,  are  exhibited  a  few  of  the 
innumerable  treasures  of  this  famous  collection, 
which  possesses  100,000  printed  books  and  15,000 
manuscripts.  Here  k  Petrarch's  copy  of  Virgil, 
a  manuscript  adorned  with  miniatures  by  Memmi, 
and  enriched  with  marginal  notes  by  Petrarch's 
"  own  particular  pen,"  to  translate  the  words  of 
the  custode.  One  of  these  marginal  notes  marks 
the  day  when  the  poet  saw  Laura  for  the  first 
time  in  the  church  of  Saint  Claire  at  Avignon, 
the  6th  April,  1327.  At  the  same  hour,  on  the 
same  date,  the  6th  April,  1348,  Laura  died,  and 
Petrarch  wrote  these  words  on  the  margin  of  his 
favorite  book,  which  no  longer  interested  him : 
"  Ut  scilicet  nihil  esse  debere  quod  amplius  mihi 
placeat  in  hac  vita." 

;  Close  to  Petrarch's  Virgil  is  one  of  the  ten  au- 
tograph letters  of  Lucrezia  Borgia  which  the  Am- 
brosian possesses.  It  is  written  on  a  small  quarto 
sheet  of  paper  yellowed  with  age,  and  in  firm,  up- 
right cursive  characters,  resembling  those  of  old 
manuscripts.     This  letter  was  addressed  to  him 


ART   NOTES    IN   MILAN.  I47 

who  became  afterwards  Cardinal  Bembo,  and  to 
it  the  gracious  lady  attached  a  lock  of  her  beau- 
tiful, sunny,  golden  hair.  I  remember  that,  in  his 
correspondence  with  the  publisher  IMurray,  Byron 
confesses  to  have  stolen  ojie  single  hair  from  this 
lock ;  and  I  presume  that  it  was  this  larceny  on  the 
part  of  his  lordship  which  caused  the  curators  of 
the  Ambrosian  to  detach  the  hair  from  the  let- 
ter, and  to  put  it,  for  greater  security,  in  a  com- 
mon card-board  box  with  a  glass  top — a  most  pal- 
try receptacle,  utterly  unworthy  of  such  a  pre- 
cious treasure.  I  copied  the  letter,  with  its  quaint 
abbreviations,  but,  as  for  translating  it,  our  Eng- 
lish language  has  not  the  suppleness  and  im- 
measurable prettiness  of  expression  necessary  to 
give  the  equivalent  sense  of  the  epistle  of  this 
gracious  lady  to  her  "  Misser  Pietro  mio."  In 
substance  she  acknowledges  a  letter  from  Bembo, 
thanks  him  for  some  verses,  sends  him  some 
verses  in  return  written  with  her  own  hand,  and 
signs : 

' '  De  Ferrara  a  di  xxviiij  de  marzo. 
Desiderosa  gratificarvi 

Lucretia  Esten  .  .  de  Borgia." 

The  whole  tone  of  the  letter  is  that  of  mere 
friendship,  but  there  was  added  that  fulgurant 
lock  of  golden  hair,  enough  to  enfiame  the  soul 
of  an  anchorite. 

Another  pearl  of  the  Ambrosian  Library,  two 
pages  of  which  alone  are  niggardly  shown  to  the 


148  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

public,  is  a  huge  folio  of  400  pages,  called  the  "  Co- 
dice  Atlantico,"  which  contains  the  observations 
of  the  painter  Leonardo  da  Vinci  on  mechanics, 
hydraulics,  optics,  fortification,  geometry,  and  en- 
gineering, the  whole  accompanied  by  1700  draw- 
ings by  the  hand  of  the  master,  and  by  text  writ- 
ten from  right  to  left,  after  the  manner  of  the 
Orientals.  Leonardo  was  a  universal  genius,  who 
anticipated  Newton  and  Bacon,  invented  the 
camera  obscura,  and  was  the  first  geologist  who 
maintained  the  theory  that  most  continents  once 
formed  the  bed  of  the  sea.  All  this  has  been 
read  in  Leonardo's  Book  of  Machines  by  savants 
who  have  taken  the  trouble  to  decipher  the  text. 
The  picture-gallery  attached  to  the  Ambrosian 
Library  is  very  rich  in  drawings  by  Leonardo,  and 
especially  in  caricatures,  which  the  artist  used  to 
make  in  the  Borghetto  on  market  days.  But 
both  the  show-cases  in  the  library  and  the  exhi- 
bition rooms  in  the  museum  are  in  a  sad  state 
of  neglect,  and  all  the  precious  pictures  and  rari- 
ties are  presented  in  the  most  miserable  condi- 
tions of  arrangement,  light,  and  preservation.  In 
the  library  the  few  manuscripts  exhibited  are 
crowded  pell-mell  in  the  paltriest  show-cases,  and 
that  famous  lock  of  Lucrezia  Borgia's  hair  is  kept 
in  a  mean  pink  paper  box  such  as  those  you  see 
in  the  Japanese  stores  containing  toy  spiders  and 
sensitive  bugs.  The  disorder  of  the  museum  is 
comparable  only  to  the  confusion  of  a  badly  kept 


ART   NOTES   IN  MILAN.  149 

bric-^-brac  store,  and  the  pictures  are  hung  on 
the  walls,  anyhow,  nameless  and  numberless, 
good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  in  the  paltriest  old  fly- 
blown frames  imaginable.  Here  is  a  lovely 
Botticelli  of  immense  value  stuck  all  awry  in  a 
frame  which  is  struggling  to  part  company  with 
the  picture.  Here  are  scores  of  drawings  by 
Leonardo,  by  Albert  Diirer,  by  Luini,  by  Verro- 
chio,  stuck  up  in  big  cases  in  the  wildest  medley, 
originals,  copies,  genuine  and  attributed  draw- 
ings, all  together.  Such  barbarous  and  neglectful 
keeping  of  precious  works  is  unworthy  of  the 
civilized  and  progressive  town  that  INIilan  pro- 
fesses to  be. 

The  ]\Iilan  Museum,  or  Brera  Gallery,  is  better 
arranged  in  well-lighted  rooms,  and  one  can  ad- 
mire in  comparative  visual  comfort  Raphael's 
"  Sposalizio,"  Leonardo's  crayon  and  sanguine 
head  of  Christ,  a  study  for  the  "Last  Supper," 
remarkable  works  by  Crivelli,  Tintoretto,  Man- 
tegna,  and  above  all  by  Luini,  many  of  whose 
frescoes  have  been  removed  from  churches  and 
convents  and  placed  here  in  security.  But  even 
here  is  plenty  of  room  for  improvement,  re- 
hanging,  re-framing,  and  re-arranging.  Imagine 
that  these  Luini  frescoes,  the  gems  of  the  collec- 
tion, are  hung  mostly  in  a  corridor  where  they  re- 
ceive only  reflected  light.  The  modern  Italians 
are  skillful  in  building  prisons  and  barracks  and 
armor-plated  ships,  but  they  have  hitherto  devot- 


150  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

ed  no  attention  to  building  model  museums  with 
a  view  to  adequately  preserving  and  well  display- 
ing the  masterpieces  which  they  have  inherited 
from  their  glorious  ancestors.  Luini's  frescoes 
ought  to  occupy  the  place  of  honor  in  this  Brera 
Gallery,  for  he  is  a  great  master  of  ingenuous  ex- 
pressiveness, grace,  elegance,  and  naivete,  a  most 
exquisite  and  human  artist.  I  know  of  nothing 
in  sacred  imagery  more  pure,  more  virginal,  more 
sincere,  and  more  joyfully  impressive  than  Luini's 
picture  of  the  three  angels  lifting  Saint  Catherine 
out  of  her  tomb  and  carrying  her  up  to  heaven. 
How  touching  in  its  simplicity  and  how  direct  the 
fresco  of  the  three  maidens  in  afield  playing  at  hot 
cockles !  And  who  are  these  maidens  ?  Evident- 
ly in  Luini's  mind  one  is  the  Virgin  and  the  other 
two  are  her  companions,  and  the  flowerj',  pale- 
green  meadow  may,  if  you  please,  be  supposed  to 
be  just  outside  Nazareth.  Raphael's  "  Sposalizio  " 
is  certainly  graceful  and  consummate,  but  how 
much  more  charming,  how  much  more  human, 
how  much  more  suave  and  poetic  is  Luini's  fres- 
co of  this  same  subject  of  the  marriage  of  Joseph. 
In  all  Luini's  frescoes,  both  at  Milan  and  else- 
where, there  is  a  peculiar  charm  in  the  peasant 
figures,  in  the  incidents  of  rustic  life,  and  in  the 
summary  visions  of  sweet  landscape  which  he  al- 
ways introduces  in  his  religious  scenes,  so  win- 
ning and  unsophisticated  in  sentiment,  and  so 
blond,  so  luminous,  and  so  distinguished  in  tone. 


ART  NOTES   IN   MILAN.  151 

Some  of  the  finest  pictures  in  Milan  are  in  the 
Poldi-Pezzoli  Museum,  a  modern  foundation  of  a 
kind  of  which  we  may  hope  some  day  or  other  to 
see  several   in   America.     The   Chevalier   Gian 
Giacomo  Poldi-Pezzoli,  founder  of  the  museum, 
died  in  1879  and  bequeathed  to  the  town  of  Milan 
his  house  just  as  it  was  when  he  lived  in  it,  to- 
gether with  all  its  contents,  and  an  annuity  to 
pay  the  cost  of  its  maintenance.     The  chevalier 
had  devoted  his  whole  life  to  forming  a  collection 
of  pictures,  furniture,  stuffs  and  tapestries,  arms, 
bronzes,  porcelain,  enamels,  glass,  and    miscel- 
laneous objects  of  art,  and  to  lodging  the  same 
in  a  house  worthy  of  such  treasures.     The  Poldi- 
Pezzoli  collection  has  been  left  just  as  its  owner 
arranged  it,  as  the  chief  ornament  of  a  gentle- 
man's dwelling.     The  house  is  very  luxuriously 
arranged,  and  interesting  as  a  specimen  of  a  fine 
modern  Italian  dwelling.     I  do  not  say  that  it  is 
a  model  of  style.    On  the  contrary,  the  chevalier, 
who  seems  to  have  had  excellent  taste  in  pictures, 
appears  to  have  allowed  a  florid  nineteenth-cen- 
tury decorator  to  run  wild  in  the  adornment  of 
his  rooms,  which  are  over-loaded  with  carving, 
gilding,  stucco-work,  and  wood  mosaic.     But  in 
this  house  are  some  prodigious  marvels  of  art, 
especially  about  two  hundred  pictures  by  the  old 
masters,  of  which  none  are  bad,  while  a  dozen 
are  beyond  praise  or  estimation,  notably  a  Luini, 
representing  the  Angel  Raphael  bringing  little 


152 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


Toby  home  to  his  parents,  a  Virgin  and  Child  by 
Botticelli,  more  exquisite  even  than  the  Botticelli 
in  the  Louvre  at  Paris,  a  portrait  of  a  lady  by 
Pier  della  Francesca,  a  Perugino,  and  a  Crivelli. 
I  cannot  say  how  delightful  it  is  to  contemplate 
masterpieces  in  surroundings  such  as  the  Poldi- 
Pezzoli  mansion  affords,  each  work  displayed  in  a 
perfect  light,  isolated  sufficiently,  and  yet  always 
in  the  neighborhood  of  beautiful  objects,  so  that 
when  the  eye  does  quit  unwillingly  the  fascinat- 
ing beauty  of  an  angel  face,  or  the  splendor  of 
one  of  those  gorgeously  enthroned  Virgins  which 
the  proud  painter  signed  in  letters  of  gold  on  a 
slab  of  lapis  lazuli 

•.••karolvs  .  chrivellvs  :  venetvs veqves:: 
lavreatvs.pinxit:- 

it  may  turn  to  a  graven  crystal  vase,  a  rich  enamel, 
or  a  perspective  of  green  foliage  seen  through  the 
open  window,  instead  of  being  met  by  the  un- 
graceful form  of  a  vulgar  spit-box  as  is  generally 
the  case  in  the  galleries  of  a  regular  museum. 
The  example  of  the  Chevalier  Poldi-Pezzoli  is 
one  which  the  American  millionaire  collectors 
would  do  well  to  meditate  and  follow. 

The  monument  which  blind  tradition  and  the 
pride  of  the  Milanese  make  out  to  be  the  most 
splendid  in  the  city,  if  not  one  of  the  wonders  of 
the  world,  I  mean  the  Duomo  or  Cathedral,  is 
the  one  which  least  struck  me  and  about  which  I 


ART   NOTES    IN    MILAN.  153 

have  least  to  say.     It  is  the  largest  church  in  the 
world  next  to  St.  Peter's  in  Rome ;  it  is  built  en- 
tirely of  white  marble,  both  inside  and  out,  and 
even  the  roof  is  made  of  marble  slabs ;  the  out- 
side walls  and  the  roof  and  pinnacles  are  peopled 
by  six  thousand  seven  hundred  and  sixteen  mar- 
ble statues,  enough  to  populate  a  town.     From 
the  outside  the  Duomo  looks  like  a  glacier  with 
its  thousand  needles  sculptured  and  fretted  into 
elegant  forms ;  or  like  some  fairy  Alcazar,  bor- 
dered with  lace  work,  set  against  the  sky  and 
surmounted  by  a  forest  of  pinnacles  and  turrets 
and  pointed  shafts,  on  which  are  balanced  in  mid 
air  statues  of  saints.     All  this  is  very  wonderful 
and  very  enormous,  but   from   an    architectural 
point  of  view,  the  only  point  of  view  to  be  taken 
in  considering  an  architectural   monument,  the 
Duomo  of  Milan  is  a  huge,  glittering  Gothic  toy, 
the  biggest  marble  gewgaw  in  the  world,  over- 
decorated,  impure  in  style,  pretentious  and  with- 
out interest,  structurally,  because  everywhere  this 
stupendous  tour  dc  force  has  to  be  held  together 
by  iron  braces  and  clamps.     The  story  runs  that 
the  two  architects  who  began  the  church  in  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Pelligrino  Tibaldi 
and  Martino  Bassi,  were  always  at  loggerheads, 
Bassi    protesting    constantly    against    Tibaldi's 
plans.     The  differences  of  the  two  rival  archi- 
tects were  referred  successively  to  the  arbitration 
of  Palladio,  Vasari,  and  Vignole,  of  whom  the  lat- 


134  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

ter,  when  consulted  on  a  question  of  supporting 
iron  braces,  sided  with  Bassi  and  emitted  the 
excellent  axiom :  "  An  edifice  ought  not  to  need 
being  held  by  leading  strings."  This  is  the  best 
and  most  comprehensive  criticism  that  has  been 
made  of  the  Cathedral  of  Milan. 

There  are  innumerable  churches  and  convents 
of  more  or  less  interest  at  Milan,  but  in  travelling 
it  is  a  wise  thing  to  remain  content  with  fine  and 
capital  impressions,  and  to  neglect  secondary- 
curiosities.  There  is  nothing  special  to  be  said 
about  busy  modern  Milan,  with  its  innumerable 
two-cent  horse-cars  and  its  universal  use  of  elec- 
tric light.  It  is  a  rich,  clean,  ostentatious,  and 
gay  city,  where  there  are  no  curb -stones,  where 
the  draymen  eat  iced  cream  in  cafes,  and  where 
the  patron  saint.  Saint  Charles  Borromeo,  is  con- 
sidered to  be  mightier  than  God  himself. 


VERONA. 

What  a  degenerate  race  we  moderns  are,  is  the 
thought  which  is  constantly  recurring  as  one  wan- 
ders about  the  old  Italian  towns,  admiring  the  rem- 
nants of  past  splendor,  the  palaces  where  the  old 
seigneurs  passed  their  magnificent  and  often  crim- 
inal existences,  the  churches  where  they  are  buried 
with  all  the  pomp  of  art  and  epigraphic  eloquence, 
the  streets  where  they  promenaded,  each  followed 
by  a  battling  retinue.  Of  all  the  old  European 
towns  that  I  have  seen  Verona  most  complete- 
ly retains  its  mediceval  aspect ;  houses,  palaces, 
churches  remain  just  as  they  were  in  the  days  of 
the  Capulets  and  the  Montagues  ;  and  if  Dante's 
host.  Can  Grande  Scaliger,  were  to  come  back  to 
this  world  he  would  find  his  palace  looking  much 
as  it  looked  when  he  was  lord,  and  when  he  in- 
vited Giotto  to  come  and  paint  his  apartments  in 
fresco.  Time  has  devoured  Giotto's  frescoes, 
and  Can  Grande  would  doubtless  be  astonished 
to  find  that  the  fact  of  his  having  given  hospitali- 
ty to  the  poet  Dante  has  done  more  towards  im- 
mortalizing his  name  than  all  his  exploits  and 
bravery  as  captain  -  general  of  the  Ghibellines. 


156  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

But  SO  it  is  ;  tlie  events  of  history  are  forgotten  ; 
the  memory  of  man  is  too  weary  to  retain  the 
names  of  a  hundred  captains  ;  the  incidents  of 
the  past  lose  their  interest,  but  the  art  of  the  past 
never  appeals  in  vain  to  the  eye,  and  the  great 
captains  who  have  protected  art  and  letters  are 
protected  in  turn  by  art  and  letters,  and  immor- 
talized not  so  much  as  great  captains  but  as  art 
patrons.  Who  cares  nowadays  about  the  Guelphs 
and  the  Ghibellines,  about  the  feuds  of  the  Scali- 
gers  and  the  Viscontis,  or  about  the  hatreds  of 
the  Capulets  and  the  Montagues  ?  We  only  remem- 
ber them  because  Dante  and  Shakespeare  have 
incidentally  immortalized  them ;  and  the  white 
marble  panel  which  the  modern  Veronese  have 
placed  on  the  fagade  of  Can  Grande's  house  in 
the  Piazza  dei  Signori  records  principally  the 
fact  that  the  exiled  Dante  found  hospitality  under 
this  roof.  It  is  indeed  in  this  tragic  town  of 
Verona  that  Dante  murmured  his  verses  on  exile  ; 
it  was  in  this  old  gray  palace  that  he  was  the 
guest  of  the  magnificent  Seigneur  della  Scala, 
Can  Grande,  who  kept  up  a  literary  court  in  his 
dwelling;  it  was  here  that  Dante  finally  found 
that  the  bread  of  a  stranger  is  bitter,  and  com- 
plained how  difficult  it  was  to  mount  the  staircase 
of  another,  an  allusion  doubtless  to  the  name  of 
his  host  della  Scala,  Scala  meaning  in  Italian 
"  ladder  "  or  "  staircase." 

Every  step  you  take  in  Verona  seems  to  bring 


VERONA. 


157 


you  face  to  face  with  some  historical  souvenir ; 
the  civilizations  of  the  Romans,  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  of  the  Renaissance  have  left  splendid 
traces,  and  so  many  are  the  objects  of  interest 
that  you  hardly  know  with  which  to  begin.  Un- 
der the  walls  of  Verona  Marius  conquered  the 
Cimbri,  and  Vitellius  was  beaten  by  Vespasian. 
Then  came  the  butcheries  of  the  barbarians,  and 
Odoacer  Avas  crushed  by  Theodoric.  Later 
Charlemagne  besieged  Didier  in  Verona  and  took 
it  by  assault.  Afterwards  came  the  family  feuds 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  Here  indeed  is  a  fine  can- 
vas on  which  to  arrange  the  drama  of  one's 
souvenirs. 

Let  us  begin  by  a  visit  to  Juliet's  house,  "la 
casa  di  Giulietta,"  as  the  Veronese  call  it.  It  is 
situated  in  the  very  centre  of  the  mediaeval  town, 
in  the  Via  di  Capello,  on  the  left-hand  side  as  you 
leave  the  market  place,  or  Piazza  dell'  Erbe,  which 
was  at  once  the  market  and  the  forum  of  the  old 
republic.  Imagine  a  narrow,  stuffy  street  lined 
■with  antique  houses,  among  which  is  noticeable  a 
red  brick  fagade  with  arched  Roman  windows, 
some  of  which  retain  remnants  of  architectural 
decoration.  On  the  third  flat  is  a  stone  balcony 
half  broken  away  and  resting  on  huge  stone  con- 
soles. The  facade  is  divided  into  two  by  a  big 
water  pipe,  and  the  windows,  irregularly  distribut- 
ed, are  hung  with  rags  and  other  evidences  of 
poor  tenantry.     On  the  ground  floor  is  the  shop 


1^8  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

of  a  baker,  with  the  sign  "  Paneficio  Fratelli  Tre- 
nadii,"  and  the  immense  archway  which  gives  en- 
trance  to  the  Capulet  house.  Over  this  archway 
swings  a  sign  of  a  cardinal's  red  hat,  and  above  it 
are  the  words  "  Al  capello,  stallo,"  that  is  to  say 
"The  Hat  Stables;"  other  signs  on  the  archway 
say  "Noleggio  cavalli,"  "Horses  to  hire,"  and 
repeat  "  Nel  capello,  stallo."  The  house  bears 
the  numbers  19,  21,  23,  25,  and  over  the  archway 
is  a  slab  of  marble,  with  the  following  inscription  : 

"  Queste  furono  le  case  dei  Capuletti 
d'onde  usci  la  Giulietta 
per  cui  tanto  piansero  i  cuori  gentili 
e  i  poeti  cantarono. 

Secoli  13  e  14  e  V." 

Beneath  the  archway  the  passage  slopes  up,  and 
you  enter  a  vast  courtyard,  the  four  sides  of  which 
are  occupied  by  miserable  buildings  terraced  with 
rough  wooden  balconies,  on  which  linen  is  spread 
to  dry  and  to  absorb  the  perfumes  of  this  most 
foul-smelling  spot.  On  each  balcony  is  built  a 
wooden  shed  on  which  is  written  the  word  "  Cessi " 
which  means  water-closet ;  the  staircases  are 
black  holes  thick  with  dirt;  the  courtyard  is 
crowded  with  carts  and  vehicles  of  all  kinds  and 
redolent  of  ammoniacal  smells ;  and  next  to  the  sta- 
bles is  a  "  Gaffe  Trattoria,"  a  cafe  and  a  restaurant 
where  you  can  be  lodged  for  the  night.  Over 
this  filthy  and  stinking  courtyard,  enthroned  in  a 
flourishing  vine  plant,  an  image  of  the  Virgin 


VERONA,  159 

presides  at  one  end,  while  at  the  other  end,  on  the 
back  facade  of  Juliet's  house,  are  carved  in  low 
relief  the  speaking  arms  of  the  Capulets  or  Cap- 
elletti,  namely,  a  hat,  or  "  Capello."  And  it  was 
here  that  Juliet  had  her  garden  ;  here  that  Romeo 
climbed  her  balcony;  here  that  the  two  lovers 
poured  out  their  souls,  until  they  were  surprised 
by  the  song  of  the  lark,  and  the  dawn  warned 
them  that  they  must  part.  This  is  the  house; 
there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it ;  and  we  can  im- 
agine the  Capulets  and  their  retainers  swagger- 
ing out  of  this  vast  courtyard  and  down  under  the 
archway  to  the  street,  ready  to  fall  foul  of  those 
hated  Montagues.  But  where  was  Juliet's  bal- 
cony? 

After  visiting  Juliet's  house,  one  naturally  vis- 
its her  so-called  tomb,  "  Tomba  Giulietta,"  apoc- 
ryphal as  it  may  be.  On  the  right  bank  of  the 
Adige,  in  the  Vicolo  Franceschine,  at  the  end  of  a 
blind  alley,  is  a  white  gable  pierced  by  two  win- 
dows with  red  shutters  and  a  big  green  door.  On 
the  gable  is  the  inscription  "Tomba  Giulietta." 
You  pull  very  hard  at  the  bell-wire,  and  after 
waiting  five  or  ten  minutes,  while  the  pulling  gets 
transmitted  to  some  very  distant  bell,  the  green 
door  wicket  opens  mysteriously,  and  you  find  your- 
self in  a  dark  passage  full  of  agricultural  machin- 
ery. At  the  end  of  this  passage  is  a  vast  garden 
which  used  to  be  a  Franciscan  cemetery.  A 
broad  walk,  overarched  with  trailing  vines,  leads 


l6o  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

through  the  garden  and  gradually  develops  into 
a  bowling-alley.  Finally  it  turns  to  the  right, 
and  at  the  end,  in  a  corner  of  the  garden,  is  a  sort 
of  chapel  of  recent  construction,  where  a  woman 
stands  with  the  inevitable  keys  waiting  to  show 
the  sight  and  to  receive  a  "  tip."  Inside  the  chap- 
el is  a  large  red  Verona  marble  trough,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  is  a  cavity  "  scooped  out  for  the 
head,"  and  at  the  opposite  end  a  hole  "bored 
to  let  in  air" — so  says  the  old  woman.  It  was  in 
this  marble  sepulchre,  we  are  told,  that  Juliet  was 
laid  after  she  had  taken  Friar  Lawrence's  narcotic, 
and  it  was  here  that  Romeo  saw  her.  Where 
she  was  really  buried  after  she  died  is  not  record- 
ed. Scattered  around  this  sarcophagus  or  trough 
are  fragments  of  columns  and  marble.  The  bot- 
tom of  the  sarcophagus  is  strewn  with  a  thickness 
of  several  inches  of  visiting-cards ;  on  the  wall 
also  are  pinned  up  visiting-cards,  mostly  bearing 
Anglo-Saxon  names  ;  and  on  the  wall  over  the  sar- 
cophagus is  hung  a  faded  wreath  with  a  card  pinned 
on  to  it.  This  card  bears  the  name  of  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman,  Mr.  Talbot  Shakspeare,  who  is 
less  famous  than  his  homonym  William.  Also 
pinned  on  the  wall  are  faded  yellow  cuttings  from 
a  local  paper,  the  Adige,  giving  an  account  of  this 
tomb,  and  some  photographs  which  the  guardian 
tries  to  sell  in  order  to  augment  her  meagre  in- 
come. Just  as  we  arrived  at  this  classic  spot  the 
old  woman  finished  a  good  stroke  of  business  : 


VERONA.  l6l 

she  concluded  a  transfer  of  twenty-two  photo- 
graphs of  the  tomb  to  the  twenty-two  members  of 
a  "personally  conducted"  party  from  Chicago 
and  thereabouts,  v/ho  were  doing  Verona  in  twen- 
ty-four hours  under  the  command  of  a  scraggy 
German  boy  who  directed  their  movements  by  the 
shrill  blasts  of  a  pea-whistle.  These  worthy  peo- 
ple, men,  women,  and  children,  seemed  to  appre- 
ciate Juliet's  tomb,  and  I  heard  some  of  them  ex- 
press satisfaction  at  its  bigness.  It  certainly 
is  big,  but,  if  the  truth  were  known,  I  am  afraid 
it  would  turn  out  to  be  neither  Juliet's  tomb,  nor 
yet  a  tomb  at  all,  but  simply  a  big  marble  foun- 
tain basin  such  as  you  see  used  all  over  Southern 
Europe  for  washing  purposes.  It  is  a  trough  or 
lavoir,  and  the  hole  pierced  "  to  let  air  in  "  was 
rather  pierced  to  let  the  water  out.  Thirty  years 
ago,  when  Charles  Blanc  saw  this  so-called  "  tomb 
of  Juliet,"  it  was  still  being  used  as  a  washing 
trough  by  the  peasants  who  owned  it.  The  mod- 
ern chapel,  the  broken  columns,  and  all  the  other 
paraphernalia  date,  I  suspect,  only  from  the  time 
when  "  personally  conducted "  tours  were  first 
organized  by  certain  inventive  and  useful  citizens 
whose  names  are  well-known  all  over  the  world. 
Still  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  tradition  is  not 
entirely  modern.  This  supposed  tomb  was  shown 
to  travellers  in  the  beginning  of  this  century,  and 
the  archduchess  Marie  Louise  of  Parma  had  a 
bracelet  made  of  fragments  of  the  stone.  This 
1 1 


1 62  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS, 

detail  is  given  by  Chateaubriand  in  his  memoirs. 
At  the  time  of  the  Congress  of  Verona,  Chateau- 
briand dined  at  the  house  of  the  archduchess, 
saw  this  bracelet,  and  was  told  the  history  of  it  by 
the  wearer. 

One  of  the  grandest  curiosities  of  Verona  is 
the  old  Roman  arena,  or  amphitheatre,  built  in 
the  third  century  of  our  era,  and  now  still  in  ex- 
cellent preservation  with  the  exception  of  the 
outer  wall,  of  which  four  arcades  alone  remain 
standinEC.  Here  indeed  is  a  monument  which 
must  make  the  moderns  feel  small.  With  our 
present  theatres,  holding  our  two  or  three  thou- 
sand people,  we  are  in  danger  of  being  burned  to 
death,  and  the  exit  is  a  process  as  perilous  as  it  is 
long.  Here  is  a  theatre  where  22,000  people 
could  be  seated  comfortably,  and  where  every 
300  spectators  had  a  separate  staircase  and  en- 
trance door.  The  exterior  arrangement  of  this 
edifice  can  be  readily  imagined  from  the  fragment 
which  remains  intact :  it  presented  three  super- 
posed rows  of  arches,  very  massive  and  of  a  rustic 
Doric  style.  The  lowest  row  contains  72  arches, 
each  of  which  was  a  door  for  entrance  and  exit, 
communicating  with  the  broad  interior  circuit 
from  which  the  staircases  start  leading  to  the  am- 
phitheatre. A  second  interior  circuit  communi- 
cates with  the  dens  for  the  wild  beasts  and  the 
rooms  of  the  gladiators.  At  each  end  of  the 
arena  are  the  galleries  for  the  authorities,  and 


VERONA.  163 

the  seats  mount  up,  row  above  rovir,  from  the  arena 
to  the  sky,  43  rows.  The  arena  measures  230 
feet  long  and  135  feet  broad,  and  the  outside  cir- 
cumference of  the  whole  edifice  is  about  1500. 
So  far  as  concerns  the  amphitheatre  proper,  the 
seats  and  the  arena,  the  edifice  is  in  perfect  preser- 
vation, repairs  having  been  made  whenever  neces- 
sary ever  since  the  fourteenth  century;  indeed,  a 
performance  was  actually  given  there  not  so  very 
long  ago,  when  all  the  sovereigns  and  diplomatists 
were  assembled  on  the  occasion  of  the  Congress 
of  Verona.  Chateaubriand  relates  that  fossil 
Verona  had  not  enough  inhabitants  to  fill  the 
building,  and  that  press-gangs  were  sent  out  to 
collect  spectators  from  the  surrounding  villages. 
This  wonderful  and  gigantic  mass  of  masonry 
is  built  of  hewn  stone,  brick,  and  rubble.  The 
tone  which  age  has  given  to  the  exterior  walls  is 
roseate  red,  paling  into  gray  and  dull  white. 

The  great  charm  of  Verona  is  that  it  has  re- 
tained its  mediaeval  aspect.  There  are  no  mod- 
ern buildings  and  no  modern  improvements,  ex- 
cept a  tramway  and  a  few  very  discreet  gas-lights. 
The  cafe  of  Verona,  which,  of  course,  bears  the 
name  of  Victor  Emmanuel,  is  established  in  a 
magnificent  palace,  that  of  the  Sparavieri,  built 
by  Sammicheli,  who  was  the  Palladio  of  Verona, 
and  who  adorned  the  town  with  innumerable 
palaces,  and  at  the  same  time  strengthened  it 
with   fortresses    and    bastions  with    embrasures 


164  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

such  as  Leonardo  da  Yinci  designed  in  his  Book 
of  ^Machines  in  the  Ambrosian  Library.     Sam- 
micheli  was  a  wonderful  man,  and,  at  the  risk  of 
re-discovering  America,  I  venture  particularly  to 
recommend  him  to  the  attention  of  architects  and 
house-builders  who  may  not  happen  to  be  familiar 
with  his  work.    Legend  says  that  he  was  the  per- 
sonal friend  of  Paul  Veronese,  and  that  it  was  he 
who  designed  the  fine  architectural  backgrounds 
which  form  such  a  conspicuous  feature  in  Ver- 
onese's pictures.     However  that  may  be,  Sam- 
micheli   built   half   a   dozen  palaces   at  Verona 
which  are  models  of  rich  domestic  architecture. 
These   are  the   palaces  which   bear   the   names 
Bevilacqua,  Canossa,  Pompei,  Guasta- Versa,  Maf- 
fei,  and  Portalupi,  elegant  and  majestic  buildings 
enriched  with  the   most   exquisite   detail.     The 
Palazzo  del  Consiglio,  commonly  called  the  Log- 
gia, on  the  Piazza  dei  Signori,  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  early  Renaissance  buildings  in  northern 
Italy,  most  richly  decorated  and  most  perfectly 
proportioned.    Verona  is  admirably  calculated  to 
disperse  our  modern  ascetic  ideas  about  banish- 
ing color  from  architecture  and  sculpture.     The 
facade  of  this  Loggia  is  all  aglow  with  colored 
marbles  and  gilded  capitals.     In  the  neighboring 
market-place,  or  Piazza  dell'  Erbe,  the  fa9ades  of 
the  quaint  old  houses  are  covered  with  frescoes 
painted  by  pupils  of  IMantegna  and  by  Paul  Ver- 
onese when  he  was  a  young  man.     In  every  nar- 


VERONA.  165 

row  street  you  see  houses  decorated  with  now 
faded  frescoes,  balconies  sculptured  into  the 
loveliest  fret-work  of  stone,  doors  gorgeous  with 
bronze  knockers  of  splendid  design,  trefoliated 
windows,  door-posts  chiselled  with  ornaments 
that  the  pencil  alone  can  render,  street-corners 
crowned  with  statues,  arcades  decorated  with 
colored  bas-reliefs  in  stone  or  terra-cotta — a  pro- 
fusion of  color  and  ornament  which  words  cannot 
describe.  In  the  churches  the  splendor  of  orna- 
ment and  color  is  still  greater,  and  that,  too,  not 
merely  in  the  added  richness  of  pictures,  bronzes, 
statuary,  and  wood-carving,  but  in  the  very  struct- 
ure of  the  buildings,  composed  of  bricks  of  vari- 
ous colors  intermingled  with  stone  and  marble 
and  terra-cotta.  For  the  architect,  the  decorator, 
the  scene-painter,  and  the  searcher  after  the 
picturesque  and  the  romantic,  Verona  is  a  mine 
of  wealth,  an  inspiration.  The  palaces,  the  two 
churches  of  Saint  Zeno  and  Saint  Anastasia,  and 
the  Piazza  dei  Signori  are  monuments  which  will 
never  be  forgotten  when  once  they  have  been 
seen. 

The  Piazza  dei  Signori  is  surrounded  by  ma- 
terial and  other  souvenirs  of  the  famous  della 
Scala  or  Scaligers  who  were  seigneurs  of  Verona 
in  the  Middle  Ages.  When  you  are  seated  at  the 
Cafe  Dante,  in  the  middle  of  the  Piazza,  with  the 
pigeons  picking  up  the  crumbs  at  your  feet,  you 
can  run  over  the  history  of  the  city  and  point  to 


1 66  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

the  spots  where  many  a  famous  event  took  place. 
On  your  left  is  the  Loggia  and  the  palace  of  Can 
Grande;  through  the  archway  at  the  corner  is 
the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Antica  and  the  tombs 
of  the  Scaligers  ;  forming  the  angle  of  the  square 
is  another  ScaUger  palace  with  brick  battlements  ; 
separated  from  this  palace  by  an  archway  is  the 
tribunal  with  severe  barred  windows  ;  on  the  other 
side  of  the  square  a  beautiful  old  well  dated  1478 
and  surmounted  by  delicate  Corinthiam  columns ; 
and  hard  by  the  Volto  Barbaro,  an  archway  be- 
neath which  Mastino  I.  della  Scala  was  assassi- 
nated in  the  twelfth  century.     All  the  houses  and 
buildings  in  this  square  are  old — three,  four,  five, 
and  six  hundred  years  old ;  the  only  really  modern 
element  in  the  square  is  the  statue  of  Dante  which 
stands  on  a  pedestal  in  the  middle,  opposite  the 
door  of  that  Scaliger  palace  where  he  found  the 
bread   so   bitter.     The  very  pavement   of   huge 
stone  slabs  is  the  same  that  Dante  trod.     In  the 
neis-hborins:  church  of  Santa  Maria  Antica,  Can 
Grande  and  his  literary  and  artistic  court  used  to 
go  to  hear  mass.     And  now,  in  the  little  square 
in  front  of  this  church,  all  these  Scaligers,  several 
of  whom  were  assassins  and  scoundrels,  lie  at  rest 
in  the  proudest  and  most  beautiful  Gothic  tombs 
in  Europe,  each   one   surrounded  by  angels   of 
marble  and  lace-work  curtains  of  wrought  iron 
that  seem  to  have  been  designed  and  forged  by 
fairy  fingers.     So  calm,  so  ancient,  so  complete 


VERONA.  167 

is  the  aspect  of  these  monuments  that  one  eould 
readily  believe  one's  self  transported  back  to  the 
days  of  Giotto,  and  one  is  quite  surprised  to  see 
people  pass  who  wear  melon  hats  and  tweed 
trousers,  and  who  never  lift  their  heads  to  look 
at  the  statues  of  illustrious  sons  of  Verona  which 
adorn  the  cornice  of  the  old  Council  Palace: 
Pliny  the  younger,  Catullus,  Vitruvius  the  archi- 
tect, Emilius  Macer,  the  poet  and  friend  of  Virgil, 
and  Cornelius  Nepos,  whose  limpid  style  used  to 
seem  so  stupid  when  we  were  obliged  to  read  it 
in  school  on  fine  summer  afternoons. 


VENICE. 

The  chief  attraction  of  travelling  is  surprise 
produced  by  something  novel  and  unforeseen. 
As  I  approached  Venice,  I  v^ished  never  to  have 
seen  the  pictures  of  Canaletto,  or  the  water-colors 
of  Bonington  and  Ziem.  The  descriptions  of 
writers,  even  of  the  precise  and  brilliant  Theo- 
phile  Gautier,  leave  some  margin  to  the  imagina- 
tion ;  but  where  the  painter  and  the  photographer 
have  passed,  the  impression  loses  at  least  its  fine 
feather-edge  of  newness  and  crispness.  And  yet, 
when  we  left  the  iron  road  and  set  foot  in  a  gon- 
dola, and  when  this  gondola  began  to  glide  along 
the  Grand  Canal,  rocking  regularly,  turning  cor- 
ners, making  hair-breadth  escapes  of  collisions, 
winding  in  and  out  through  the  inextricable  net- 
work and  infinite  capillarity  of  the  aquatic  streets 
of  Venice,  our  astonishment  was  as  great  as  if  we 
had  never  read  a  book  about  Venice,  and  never 
seen  a  Canaletto  or  a  Ziem.  The  movement  of 
the  gondola  is  delightful  in  the  extreme,  and  sur- 
passed only  in  suavity  by  the  movement  of  a 
"  caique  "  on  the  Bosphorus.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  gondola  itself  is  a  sufficiently  funereal  craft ; 


VENICE.  169 

the  gondolier  is  an  unromantic  person  who  rarely 
sings,  and  whose  dress  is  commonplace ;  the 
canals  of  Venice  are  decidedly  foul-smelling,  and 
the  palaces  with  which  they  are  lined  are  ap- 
proaching a  sad  state  of  ruination.  Travellers 
rarely  quit  the  emphatic  tone  in  describing  what 
they  have  seen,  even  when  the  things  they  men- 
tion are  mediocre  ;  the  idea  being,  I  suppose,  that 
it  would  compromise  a  traveller's  reputation  to 
admit  that  he  had  seen  something  which  was  not 
worth  seeing.  In  real  truth  one  of  the  nuisances 
of  travelling  is  that,  on  the  recommendation  of 
the  guide-books,  we  are  constantly  going  to  see 
some  stupid  thing  or  other  which  in  our  normal 
state  of  existence  would  not  captivate  our  atten- 
tion for  a  single  moment.  People  rave  about  the 
entrance  to  Venice  by  the  Grand  Canal :  the  en- 
trance to  Lyons  by  the  Rhone,  or  to  Paris  by  the 
Seine,  is  certainly  more  grandiose.  The  marvel 
of  Venice  is  not  the  Grand  Canal,  it  is  the  Piaz- 
zetta,  St.  Mark's,  and  the  Ducal  Palace  seen  from 
the  sea ;  it  is  the  essential  queerness  of  the  town, 
where  you  cannot  take  two  steps  without  arriving 
at  a  canal  or  a  bridge,  and  where  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end  you  never  see  a  larger  four-footed 
animal  than  a  dog  or  a  cat.  The  Piazza  San 
Marco  is  the  realization  of  a  fairy  tale  ;  neither 
Canaletto  nor  Gautier,  nor  any  painter  or  writer 
can  give  an  adequate  representation  of  this  won- 
derful sight.     On  two  sides  are  the  monumental 


[70 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


Structures  of  the   Procuraties ;  to  the  right  the 
Campanile  rises  300  feet  in  the  air ;  to  the  left  is 
the  clock-tower,  surmounted  by  automatic  bronze 
giants  holding  hammers  upraised  ready  to  strike 
the  hours ;  in  the  background  is  St.  Mark's  Church, 
with  its  leaden  domes  shining  as  if  they  were  of 
silver,  its  five  porches  with  their  splendor  of  mo- 
saics on  gold  ground,  its  three  or  four  hundred 
columns  of  porphyry,  granite,  serpentine,  vert  an- 
tique, and  Pentelic  marble ;  its  bronze  horses,  its 
undulating  silhouette  fringed  with  gold  angels  in- 
termingled with  fanti.stic  vegetation  of  snow-white 
marble.    In  front  of  the  church  rise  three  red  flag- 
poles, shod  with  beautiful  bronze  pedestals ;  while 
at  the  right-hand  corner  you  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  windows  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  with  its  walls  of 
white  and  rose  marble. 

This  vision  is   a  marvel  only  approached  in 
splendor  by  the  vision  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  St. 
Mark's,  and  the    Piazzetta   seen   from   the   sea. 
From  every  point  of  view  the  scene  is  one  of  mar- 
vellous richness,  marred  only  by  the  degenerate 
humanity  which  animates  it.     Modern  Venice  is 
a  dead  city,  living  on  the  curiosity  and  gullibility 
of  foreign  visitors.    You  cannot  go  near  St.  Mark's 
or  the  Ducal  Palace  without  being  pestered  by 
the  offers  of  guides  and  photograph-sellers,  who 
buzz  around  you  like  flies.     And  all  the  arcades 
around  St.  Mark's  Place  are   occupied  by  little 
shops,  where  are  sold  the  trashiest,  paltriest,  and 


VENICE.  171 

most  abominable  jewelry,  trinkets,  knick-knacks, 
and  souvenirs  which  it  is  possible  to  imagine  ;  and 
the  shopkeepers  stand  at  their  doors  and  solicit 
you,  first  in  one  tongue  and  then  in  another,  for 
the  wretches  sell  their  rubbish  in  all  languages. 
This  St.  Mark's  Place,  the  scene  of  the  above- 
mentioned  splendors  and  inconveniences,  is  the 
centre  of  Venetian  life.  In  the  arcades  are  four 
cafes,  of  which  the  most  famous  is  the  Cafe  Flor- 
ian,  renowned  for  its  excellent  coffee  during  the 
past  hundred  years.  Towards  sunset,  these  four 
cafes  occupy  two  thirds  of  the  vast  square  with 
their  little  tables  and  chairs,  leaving  only  a  pas- 
sage free  down  the  middle ;  and  on  the  four  or 
five  nights  a  week  when  the  military  band  plays 
every  chair  is  taken,  and  the  crowd  remains  thick 
until  midnight.  All  Venice  is  there,  rich  and 
poor  alike,  but  more  poor  than  rich.  All  the 
visitors  are  there ;  and  everybody  who  has  a  six- 
pence in  his  pocket  is  eating  ices  and  granitas, 
which  are  excellent  in  Venice,  and  only  surpassed 
by  those  of  Milan.  Amid  the  crowd  circulate 
two  or  three  flower-girls,  daintily  dressed  a  la 
Parisienne ;  hardworking  men  and  boys,  who  try 
to  sell  their  halfpenny  papers,  Corriere  della  Sera, 
Venezia,  Adriatico ;  and  the  caramel-vendor,  who 
offers  grapes,  plums,  and  quarters  of  oranges 
glach  with  sugar  and  skewered  on  sticks  of  white 
wood.  A  degenerate  crowd,  indeed,  ill-favored 
and   uncomely   withal.     Where   are   the   blonde 


17- 


SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 


Venetian  women  that  Palma  Vecchio  and  Titian 
depicted?  Where  are  all  the  gay  and  graceful 
follies  of  the  Venice  which  Longhi  has  immor- 
talized in  his  delicate  paintings  ?  Where  are  the 
swaggering  and  brilliantly  dressed  gondoliers 
whom  we  see  in  Carpaccio's  pictures?  United 
Italy  and  Manchester  wares  have  put  an  end  to 
all  this.  Gay  and  brilliant  Venice  is  only  a  mem- 
ory, and  a  penny  steamboat,  smoking  and  hid- 
eous, now  runs  up  and  down  that  Grand  Canal 
where  formerly  the  gilded  gondolas  of  the  Re- 
public, and  the  still  richer  gondolas  of  the  am- 
bassadors, were  towed  up  and  down  in  stately 
pomp,  for  the  gondoliers  of  the  Republic  were 
too  grand  personages  to  work.  They  were  clad 
in  mantles  of  red  velvet  embroidered  with  gold, 
and  wore  large  caps  a  rAlbanoise,  which  made 
them  so  proud  that  they  could  not  condescend  to 
handle  an  oar,  but  stood  up  bravely  on  the  gon- 
dolas of  the  Republic  and  had  themselves  towed 
by  small  boats,  with  musicians  on  board  to  play 
and  charm  their  ears. 

Venice  has  been  written  about  so  much  and  so 
enthusiastically  that  one  forms  perhaps  too  great 
ideas  about  it  before  having  seen  the  reality.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  there  has  been  much  ro- 
mancing done,  on  the  part  of  Byron  especially, 
and  not  a  little  on  the  part  of  George  Sand  and 
Gautier,  Doubtless,  on  account  of  the  souvenirs 
it  calls  up,  Venice  is  a  most  interesting  place ; 
its  narrow  streets  are  most  curious  ;  its  canals, 


VENICE.  173 

its  gondolas,  even  its  gondoliers,  most  romantic 
and  delightful.  But,  in  sober  truth,  all  that  one 
needs  to  see  of  Venice  is  the  general  aspect,  St. 
Mark's  Church  and  Place,  the  Ducal  Palace,  and 
the  pictures  in  the  Accademia.  If  you  go  off  to 
this  church  and  that  scuola,  trying  to  feel  at  second- 
hand the  ethico-aesthetic  sensations  of  John  Rus- 
kin  ;  or  if  you  go  to  the  prisons  of  the  Ducal  Pal- 
ace, or  to  the  shores  of  the  Lido,  with  a  view  to 
treading  in  the  footsteps  of  Byron,  you  are  doomed 
to  disappointment.  The  prisons  of  the  Ducal 
Palace  are  very  comfortable  apartments,  and  the 
Lido  is  a  barren  island,  on  which  an  enterprising 
company  has  established  a  very  prosperous  bath- 
ing establishment  and  seaside  restaurant,  thirty 
cents  there  and  back,  bath  and  towels  included 
— a  sort  of  Venetian  Coney  Island.  The  Lido  is 
also  the  Jewish  burying-ground. 

Yet  one  may  well  spend  a  week  in  Venice,  and 
explore  the  town  thoroughly,  even  at  the  cost  of 
numerous  disappointments,  amply  compensated 
for  by  the  indelible  souvenirs  of  the  Piazza  San 
Marco,  of  the  sea-view,  and  of  the  pictures  by 
Carpaccio,  John  Bellini,  Titian,  Paris  Bordone, 
and  Paul  Veronese,  which  are  the  pearls  of  the 
Academy.  Nevertheless,  far  from  being  a  fairy 
city,  Venice  is  a  mouldering,  decayed,  and  de- 
crepit old  place,  and  (there  is  no  use  in  disguis- 
ing the  fact)  it  smells  abominably  —  all  these 
canals  being,  of  course,  tidal,  and  rising  and 
sinking  with  the  waters  of  the  Adriatic. 


BOLOGNA.— R  A  VENN  A. 

In  the  city  famous  for  mortadella,  I  lodged  in 
an  inn  which  was  formerly  a  palace — a  vast  and 
magnificent  house,  built  around  a  courtyard  sur- 
rounded by  arcades,  and  enlivened  with  the  lux- 
uriant verdure  of  immense  oleander-trees  in  pots. 
I  have  a  charming  souvenir  of  this  Hotel  Brun, 
where,  with  the  thermometer  at  93°,  I  was 
able  to  sit  in  the  shade  under  the  arcades,  and 
sip  exquisite,  savory  coffee,  and  contemplate  a 
patch  of  lapis-lazuli  blue  sky  framed  in  arches  . 
and  architectural  lines,  which  reminded  me  of  the 
sumptuous  and  luminous  backgrounds  of  the  pict- 
ures of  Paul  Veronese.  In  the  late  afternoon, 
when  the  thermometer  at  last  sank  to  90°,  I 
ventured  to  inspect  the  town.  All  the  streets  in 
Bologna  are  bordered  by  arcades,  convenient 
enough  as  shelter  against  sun  and  rain,  but  mo- 
notonous in  the  end,  because  they  transform  the 
streets  into  long  cloisters,  absorb  the  light,  and 
give  the  town  a  cold  and  monastic  aspect.  Un- 
romantic  as  the  remark  may  seem,  I  must  state 
that  the  first  thing  which  struck  me  in  Bologna 
was  the  rarity  of  shops  for  the  sale  of  mortadella 


BOLOGNA,  175 

and  the  multiplicity  of  barbers'  tonsorial  saloons, 
all  open  to  the  street,  so  that  the  ragged  urchins 
may  regale  themselves  with  the  sight  of  soaped 
chins  and  bald   crowns.     Never  within   such  a 
limited  space  have  I  seen  so  many  barbers,  and 
my  curiosity  was  all  the  more  lively  because  I 
noticed  that  the  Bolognese  are  a  bearded  race. 
The  phenomenon  appeared  so  strange  that  I  de- 
termined to  try  one  of  these  Figaros,  and  to  ques- 
tion him  adroitly,  and  so  gather  knowledge.     The 
explanation   he  gave   me  was    satisfactory  :  the 
Bolognese  wear  beards  because  they  are  shop- 
keepers and  functionaries  ;  but  the  principal  cus- 
tomers of  the  barbers  are  the  country-people  and 
peasants,  who  are  a  shaven  race,  and  who  come 
into  the  town  to  sell  their  produce  and  to  get  their 
chins  scraped  secundum  artem.     After  thanking 
the  barber  for  his  information  and  for  his  light- 
ness of  hand,  I  wandered  along  arcades  until  I 
came  to  a  square  where  two  leaning  towers  have 
tottered  now  for  many  centuries  without  falling : 
one  is  called  the  Torre  degli  Asinelli,  300  feet  high 
and  strongly  resembling  a  Manchester  chimney ; 
the  other  is  the  Torre  Garisenda,  built  in  mo, 
with  an  inclination  of  9  feet  from  the  perpendicu- 
lar.    This  tower  is  only  150  feet  high,  but  it  has 
the  honor  of   having  suggested   a  metaphor   to 
Dante. 

Coffee  at  the  cafd  on  the  Piazza  Vittorio  Em- 
manuele  was  the  natural  conclusion  of  this  first 


lyG  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

promenade  in  Bologna ;  and  the  view  of  Jean  de 
Bologna's  colossal  fountain  of  Neptune  and  of  the 
quaint,  yellow,  castellated  Municipal  Palace  was  a 
consolatory  spectacle,  which  carried  one  away  back 
to  the  thirteenth  century,  when  the  building  was 
constructed.  The  next  morning  I  visited  the 
churches,  finding  in  them  nothing  very  marvel- 
lous;  and  next  I  sought  the  picture  -  gallerj-, 
where  Guido,  the  three  Carracci,  Domenichino, 
and  Albano  reign  supreme,  the  glory  of  the  Bo- 
lognese  school.  This  gallery  looks  as  neglected 
and  uncared-for  as  most  public  galleries  in  Italy, 
and  the  conditions  of  exhibition  are  as  bad  as 
they  can  be.  The  Bologna  Gallery  has,  for  in- 
stance, a  beautiful  set  of  engravings  by  Albert 
Diirer,  signed  with  his  monogram,  and  yet  most  of 
them  are  ticketed  with  the  word  "anonymous." 
Imagine  the  state  of  mind  of  the  curator  of  a 
State  museum  who  is  unable  to  recognize  the 
work  of  Albert  Diirer.  Among  the  very  old  pict- 
ures I  discovered  a  portrait  of  the  Madonna,  on  a 
gold  ground,  in  the  style  of  the  primitives,  signed 
by,  I  presume,  the  first  lady-artist  in  Europe, 
Catterina  Vigri,  called  the  Saint  of  Bologna,  "  La 
Santa  di  Bologna."  Catterina  was  born  in  1413 
and  died  in  1463.  Afterwards  Bologna  became 
quite  a  place  for  lady-artists,  among  whom  Lavinia 
di  Bologna  and  Elizabetta  Sirani  became  especial- 
ly famous.  Elizabetta  painted  quite  as  good  or 
quite  as  bad  religious  pictures  as  Guido  Reni. 


RAVENNA.  177 

The  reputed  "  pearl  "  of  the  Bologna  Gallery  is 
Raphael's  "  Saint  Cecilia" — by  no  means  a  pearl, 
for  it  is  not  remarkable  for  charm  of  color,  for 
harmony  of  composition,  or  for  clearness  of  signi- 
fication. It  is  a  poor  Raphael,  painted  to  order 
for  some  church  or  cloister,  or  for  some  confrater- 
nity whose  devotion  demanded  the  anachronistic 
juxtaposition  of  Saint  Paul,  Saint  John,  and  Saint 
Cecilia  in  the  same  picture.  The  great  Italian 
painters  were  constantly  hampered  by  similar 
orders,  and  the  museums  of  Europe  are  full  of 
the  sad  results. 

From  Bologna  to  Ravenna  is  a  four  hours' 
journey,  by  slow  trains  and  branch  lines,  across  a 
flat  country  not  well  reputed  for  healthiness. 
Formerly  a  port  of  the  Adriatic  and  the  capital 
of  the  Gothic  kings,  and  subsequently  the  resi- 
dence of  the  exarch,  or  lieutenant,  of  the  Eastern 
emperors,  Ravenna  is  now  nearly  six  miles  distant 
from  the  sea,  and  as  dead  as  a  country  town  can 
be  with  12,000  inhabitants  and  no  commerce  in 
particular.  Chance  having  caused  me  to  arrive 
at  Ravenna  in  the  evening,  all  that  could  be  done 
was  to  sup  and  then  seek  out  the  principal 
cafe'  of  the  town.  With  the  aid  of  a  map  and  of 
topographical  instinct,  I  passed  through  some 
sombre  and  mysterious  streets,  and  reached  safely 
the  Cafe  Vittorio  Emmanuele,  situated,  of  course, 
on  the  Piazza  Vittorio  Emmanuele.  Opposite  the 
cafe  was  an  old  palace  converted  into  barracks ; 
12 


lyS  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

to  the  left  the  Town  Hall,  with  a  vast  luminous 
dial  in  the  clock-tower ;  to  the  right  two  tall  gran- 
ite columns,  erected  by  the  Venetians  in  1483, 
says  the  guide-book,  and  now  covered  with  elec- 
tioneering placards ;  beyond,  a  brick  portico 
built  on  very  ancient  granite  columns,  and,  under 
the  portico,  shops  without  fronts,  yawning  caverns 
flashing  out  their  light  into  the  general  obscurity 
of  the  square.  And  in  the  moonlight  this  square 
and  its  surrounding  buildings  look  like  some 
romantic  stage  scenery,  and  one  might  indulge  in 
all  kinds  of  dreams  were  one  not  recalled  to  real- 
ity by  the  voice  of  the  newsboy  crying  ^^  II  Secolo,'" 
and  by  the  sound  of  clinking  spoons  and  cups 
produced  by  the  Ravennese  taking  their  ice- 
cream or  their  evening  moka.  But,  in  spite  of 
the  high  civilization  of  the  Cafe  Vittorio  Emman- 
uele,  and  although  the  ladies  are  dressed  d.  la 
Farisienne,  Ravenna  is  essentially  a  place  to  dream 
in,  and  everything  you  see  carries  you  back  in 
imagination  at  least  a  thousand  years.  The 
great  monuments  of  Ravenna  date  from  the  fifth 
to  the  eighth  centuries,  and  there  is  no  place,  not 
even  Rome,  where  primitive  Christian  art  can  be 
so  well  studied.  The  two  churches  of  St.  Apolli- 
naris,  the  church  of  St.  Vitalis,  the  baptistery  and 
the  mausoleum  of  the  Empress  Galla  Placida,  all 
decorated  with  mosaics  twelve  and  thirteen  hun- 
dred years  old,  are  the  most  wonderfully  preserved 
specimens  of  ecclesiastical  architecture  and  deco- 


RAVENNA.  179 

ration  that  can  be  seen,  not  excepting  even  St.  So- 
phia at  Constantinople,  which  served  as  the  model 
for  St.  Vitalis.  No  description,  no  photograph,  no 
painting  can  give  an  adequate  idea  of  the  style, 
color,  and  effect  of  these  immense  wall-covering 
mosaic  pictures  and  ornaments,  very  different 
from  those  in  St.  Mark's  at  Venice.  One  must 
make  the  journey  in  order  to  obtain  the  impres- 
sion. Three  full  days  spent  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  mosaics,  in  the  study  of  the  architecture, 
and  in  the  examination  in  the  museum  of  the  most 
interesting  specimens  of  the  artistic  productions 
of  the  centuries  which  preceded  that  of  Charle- 
magne, were  not  too  long,  even  for  a  lay  observer, 
and  I  started  at  last  for  Florence  reluctantly, 
fearing  that  I  might  have  missed  something 
which  I  ought  to  have  seen.  But  is  not  the  path 
of  the  traveller  always  paved  with  regrets  ? 


FLORENCE. 

Certainly  it  is  warm  in  Italy  in  the  summer, 
and  during  my  last  month's  wanderings  the  day 
temperature  has  varied  between  95°  and  100° 
Fahrenheit.  But  if  one  can  endure  this  heat  with- 
out inconvenience  one  is  rewarded  by  the  aspect 
of  the  country  in  the  full  exuberance  of  its  ver- 
dant fertilit}^  I  cannot  imagine  anything  more 
beautiful  than  the  summer  aspect  of  Florence 
and  of  its  surrounding  hills  and  valleys  seen  from 
the  terraces  of  the  Boboli  Gardens  or  from  the 
heights  of  San  Miniato  or  Fiesole.  It  is  a  spec- 
tacle that  appeals  to  the  thoughts  as  much  as  to 
ithe  eye,  for  before  us  is  a  soil  which  has  had  the 
rare  privilege  of  nurturing  two  civilizations.  The 
fields  which  stretch  away  between  the  river  and 
the  Apennines  still  hide  beneath  their  surface 
the  vestiges  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  noblest  civ- 
ilizations in  the  world,  that  of  the  Etruscans. 
The  beautiful  valley  of  the  Arno  is  before  us, 
irrigated,  planted,  fertilized,  protected  against  the 
violence  of  winds  and  water,  such  as  it  was  formed 
by  the  industrious  hands  of  the  Florentines  of 
the  Renaissance.     The  olive-tree,  with  its  black. 


FLORENCE.  l8l 

gnarled  trunk  and  its  pale  foliage,  gives  to  the 
landscape  a  grave,  impressive,  and  gentle  aspect, 
in  keeping  with  its  illustrious  history.  A  multi- 
tude of  sinuous  roads,  bordered  with  cypress  and 
evergreen  oaks,  connect  together  villages,  or- 
chards, farms,  and  scattered  houses  half  concealed 
behind  festooning  vines.  Beyond  is  Florence 
seated  on  either  bank  of  the  Arno,  over  which 
stretch  bridges  of  various  epochs:  the  Ponte. 
Vecchio  still  lined  with  jewellers'  shops,  the  Ponte 
alia  Carraja,  the  Trinity  Bridge,  and  the  bridge 
with  a  beautiful  name,  the  Ponte  alle  Grazie. 
Within  quite  a  small  circuit  is  the  City  of  Flowers, 
with  its  domes,  its  battlemented  towers,  its  cam- 
paniles, its  vast  arcades,  or  loggie,  its  cloisters  in- 
crusted  with  marble  or  radiant  with  fresco,  its 
rustic  palaces  and  gardens,  whose  persistent  and 
solid  verdure  of  cypress  and  evergreen  oak  seems 
itself  like  architectural  vegetation.  Against  the 
pure  blue  sky  and  the  green  hills  everything 
stands  out  in  sharp  contour,  and  as  a  painter 
would  say  "  composes  "  admirably.  In  this  happy 
variety  of  monuments  of  all  ages  and  of  all  styles, 
there  are  two  monuments  which  dominate  and 
reign  over  the  town  and  over  the  whole  country 
— the  dome  of  the  cathedral  and  the  graceful 
machicolated  tower  of  the  Old  Palace ;  one  the 
centre  of  the  civil  life  of  old  Florence,  and  the 
other  of  its  religious  life.  Around  these  two 
points  are  grouped  the  palaces  of  the  signori,  the 


l82  SUMMER   HOUDAYS. 

houses  of  the  citizens,  the  streets,  the  markets, 
the  squares,  the  monasteries,  the  various  edifices 
of  private  and  pubUc  life — the  whole  with  a  fit- 
ness, a  proportion,  and  an  exquisite  harmony,  of 
which  Athens  possessed  the  secret,  but  of  which 
not  even  a  distant  souvenir  remains  in  the  dull 
uniformity  of  nearly  all  our  modern  towns.  There 
is  something  consoling  and  ennobling  in  the  as- 
pect of  Florence,  in  this  small  fatherland  of  so 
many  great  men,  who  each  developed  his  individu- 
ality and  left  behind  him  beneficent  traces  of  his 
genius.  Dante,  Galileo,  Giotto,  Ghiberti,  Dona- 
tello,  Michael  Angelo,  Luca  della  Robbia — what 
names  and  what  works  gathered  together  in  how 
small  a  space ! 

It  is  constantly  of  Athens  that  we  are  reminded 
in  wandering  about  Florence,  where  our  steps  are 
ever  returnins:  to  the  Piazza  del  Duomo  or  to  the 
Piazza  della  Signoria,  which,  by  their  striking  orig- 
inality, make  us  at  once  comprehend  the  double 
character,  civil  and  religious,  of  this  animated  and 
curious  history  of  Florence.  The  cathedral  of 
Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  Giotto's  campanile,  and 
the  baptistery  built  on  the  site  of  a  temple  of 
Mars  form  a  characteristic  group  of  monuments 
raised  by  the  state  for  the  sanctification  of  all  acts 
of  Catholic  life.  Neither  time,  talent,  nor  expense 
has  been  spared  to  give  these  monuments  great 
splendor.  Vasari  relates  how  for  two  centuries 
a  succession  of  artists  worked  at  the  church  of 


FLORENCE.  183 

Our  Lady  of  the  Flower,  from  Arnolfo  di  Lapo  to 
Brunelleschi,  who  crowned  it  with  a  dome,  which 
Michael  Angelo  obligingly  declared  "  unsurpass- 
able," but  which  is,  nevertheless,  far  inferior  to  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's.  By  the  side  of  the  cathedral 
is  the  campanile  which  Giotto  began  with  orders 
"  to  surpass  all  that  the  Greeks  and  Romans  had 
ever  achieved  of  the  kind  in  the  plenitude  of 
their  power."  Opposite  is  the  baptistery,  decora- 
ted with  mosaics  by  Greek  artists,  and  furnished 
with  most  famous  bronze  gates  "  worthy  to  give 
entrance  to  Paradise."  All  this  is  noble,  fine, 
magnificent,  and  simple,  but  utterly  wanting  in  that 
mysterious  impressiveness  which  fills  us  when  we 
contemplate  our  Northern  cathedrals.  Whether  in 
church  or  castle,  Italian  Gothic  bears  no  trace  of 
that  rust  of  ages  which  seems  to  us  inseparable 
from  a  mediaeval  monument ;  it  is  a  Gothic 
which,  in  spite  of  its  years,  appears  to  be  new ; 
a  white-and-rose  Gothic,  more  pretty  than  majes- 
tic. The  cathedral  of  Florence  is  a  vast  mosaic 
of  precious  marbles  of  all  colors,  relieved  by  sober 
and  exquisite  ornaments,  the  whole  very  pagan, 
almost  entirely  free  from  Christian  inspiration, 
and  a  testimony  rather  of  the  grandeur  of  the 
Republic  and  of  the  magnificence  of  its  citizens 
than  of  their  devotion. 

The  Piazza  della  Signoria  is  the  most  wonder- 
ful and  the  most  unsymmetrical  place  in  exist- 
ence, and  yet  the  effect  of  the  whole  is  most 


184  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

harmonious.     Buildings  and  decorations,  palace, 
portico,  fountain,  statues  are  grouped,  one  would 
say  at  haphazard,  in  one  corner,  and  yet  in  this 
apparent  disorder  there  must  be  a  superior  order, 
inasmuch  as   it  charms   us.     The   impenetrable 
mass  of  the  Old  Palace  forms  a  contrast  with  the 
arched  openings  of  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  where 
the  soft  light  of  the  Tuscan  sky  caresses  the  per- 
fect forms   of  those   most  wonderful   pieces  of 
sculpture  :  "  Perseus,"  by  Benvenuto  Cellini ;  the 
"  Sabines,"  by  John  of   Bologna ;  "  Judith,"  by 
Donatello  ;  "  Ajax  and  Patrocles,"  and  "  Hercu- 
les and  the  Centaur  Nessus" — a  most  pagan  as- 
sembly indeed.     But  what  a  delightful  idea,  this 
loggia,  this  charming  shelter  against  the  inclem- 
ency of  a  climate  without  rigor,  built  for  the  sig- 
nori  of  Florence  for  days  of  public  joy,  when  they 
came  in  presence  of  the  assembled  people  to  pro- 
mulgate decrees,  to-  distribute  flags,  to  preside 
over  national  fetes,  and  sometimes  over  national 
disgraces.     It  was  from  this  loggia  that  the  signal 
was  given  to  set  fire  to  the  fagots  that  were  to 
burn  Savonarola ;  and  in  his  cell,  still  preserved 
in  the  beautiful  old  monastery  of  San  Marco,  you 
see,  beside  the  hair  shirt  and  the  prayer-book  of 
the  prophet,  a  quaint  old  picture  depicting  the  as- 
pect of  the  Piazza  della  Signoria  on  the  day  of 
his  martyrdom,  Avith  the  narrow  perspective  of 
the  Uffizi  Palace,  the  Hercules  of  Bandinelli,  the 
Ammanati  fountain,  the  equestrian  statue  of  Cosi- 


FLORENCE,  1 85 

mo  I.,  and  the  Uguccioni  Palace,  which  Raphael 
is  said  to  have  designed.  All  this  stands  just  as 
it  stood  four  hundred  years  ago  ;  the  only  change 
is  in  the  aspect  of  the  people,  who  now  wear  shab- 
by clothes,  ride  in  omnibuses,  and  pester  the  visitor 
with  offers  of  photographic  souvenirs.  Florence 
is  no  longer  the  irreqiiieta  e  romorosa  Fireiiza  of 
the  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines,  of  the  Pazzi  and  the 
Medici.  It  is  a  quiet,  moribund  city,  where  in- 
dustry has  no  great  hold,  and  where  the  churches 
and  the  studios  show  that  the  flame  is  almost 
dead  in  the  two  great  lamps  of  popular  imagina- 
tion, religion  and  art. 


FRANKFORT. 

When  the  long,  sunny  June  days  arrive,  the 
monotonous  duties  of  daily  life  invariably  seem 
to  me  so  absurd  and  so  unendurable  that  I  de- 
termine, sooner  or  later,  to  revolt,  and,  a  few 
hours  after  this  determination  has  been  taken,  I 
find  myself  at  a  railway  depot  asking  information 
about  the  next  train  for  some  general  destination. 
This  summer,  I  suddenly  conceived  a  desire  to 
see  sundry  German  museums,  and  therefore 
started  one  night,  in  the  Paris-Frankfort  express, 
with  my  passport  duly  vised.  This  latter  precau- 
tion had  been  rendered  necessary  by  the  new 
regulations  which  had  just  been  put  into  force  by 
the  German  authorities,  and  which  still  oblige  all 
foreigners  who  cross  the  frontiers  of  Alsace-Lor- 
raine  to  be  provided  with  passports,  vised  by  the 
German  consul  at  a  cost  of  \2\  francs  each. 
During  the  first  few  months  after  the  promulga- 
tion of  this  vexatious  decree,  the  German  consu- 
late in  Paris  took  in  something  like  ten  thousand 
dollars  a  month  in  fees  for  passport  visas. 

This  fact  I  communicated  to  the  purse-proud 
and  polyglot   German  gentleman  who  was   my 


FRANKFORT.  187 

neighbor  in  the  sleeping-car,  but,  being  also  a 
patriot,  he  found  this  good  round  sum  a  source 
of  joy.  "  It  might,"  he  thought,  "  ultimately  help 
the  new  Kaiser  to  dimeenish  the  taxes." 

My  German  neighbor  was  too  patriotic,  and  as 
I  did  not  see  why  foreigners  should  be  called 
upon  to  pay  the  taxes  of  the  Vaterland,  we  agreed 
to  disagree  and  try  to  sleep.  So  the  beds  were 
made  up,  and  we  turned  in.  "  Tackety-tackety, 
tack,  tack,  tackety !"  went  the  wheels  clattering 
along  the  rails;  "Tack,  tack,  tacketj',  b-r-r-r!" 
Then  comes  a  fearful  jolt,  and  the  car  sways  to 
and  fro.  If  I  could  only  get  to  sleep  !  What  is 
the  matter  with  this  pillow  ?  Is  it  too  high  or  too 
low,  too  hard  or  too  soft?  The  stupidest  and 
most  incongruous  thoughts  crowd  into  my  head, 
driving  away  sleep.  The  wheels  grind  and  grate, 
and  then  start  again  with  their  "  tack,  tack,  tack- 
ety" sound  that  adapts  itself  equally  to  imaginary 
drum-taps  or  to  the  movement  of  the  popular  air 
from  the  last  operetta.  Patience  !  I  shall  get  used 
to  it  in  another  half-hour. 

Horror  of  horrors !  My  German  neighbor  is 
beginning  to  snore  ! — a  fine  contralto  snore  !  Is 
it  possible  ? — he  is  snoring  a  tune  !  "  Die  Wacht 
am  Rhein  !"     This  is,  indeed,  a  patriot ! 

At  four  in  the  morning  we  reached  the  frontier 
of  Alsace-Lorraine,  and  under  the  watchful  eyes 
of  long-legged,  blonde  soldiers  and  gorgeously  ar- 
rayed officials,  we  passed,  we  and  our  baggage. 


1 88  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

into  the  Zoll- Revisions  Room,  where  our  pass- 
ports were  subjected  to  close  scrutiny. 

After  this  little  incident  our  journey  was  re- 
sumed, and  my  German  neighbor  soon  fell  asleep, 
and  snored  "  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein  "  until  we  came 
within  sight  of  the  Niederwald  Denkmal  opposite 
Mayence,  when  he  woke  up  with  singular  a  J>r(}/>os 
and  a  new  attack  of  "  patriotismus,"  which  lasted 
until  we  steamed  into  Frankfort  station,  where  he 
saluted  me  quite  "famillionairly,"  and  jumped 
into  a  fine  two-horse  barouche  adorned  with  his 
coat-of-arms,  and  with  the  person  of  a  blonde 
maiden  whom  he  pointed  out  to  me  as  his  daugh- 
ter— a  sweet  creature  of  archaic  outlines,  like  one 
of  Lucas  Cranach's  models  dressed  in  modern  style 
by  a  pupil  of  Worth.  Alas  !  why  did  I  not  flatter 
this  patriotic  German  ?  Why  did  I  not  agree  with 
him  and  develop  his  propositions  for  him  with  cumu- 
lative arguments  ?  I  might,  perhaps,  have  sketched 
out  a  romance  with  the  Worth-Cranach  maiden, 
and  so  steered  clear  of  ennui  in  sleepy  Frankfort. 

The  first  thing  I  did  on  arriving  in  Frankfort 
was  to  take  my  seat  in  the  baronial  dining-hall 

of   the    Hotel   X ,  and   to  wrestle  with  the 

table-cThbte  dinner.  Opposite  me  sat  a  very  gen- 
tle and  civilized  German  and  his  pale,  blonde 
wife,  whose  delicate  face  was  just  beginning 
to  yellow  into  wrinkles.  This  worthy  pair,  evi- 
dently well-to-do  people,  ordered  half  a  bottle 
of  Medoc,  which  they  shared,  diluted  with  much 


FRANKFORT.  189 

water,  and  seemed  happy.  Alas  !  this  spectacle 
filled  me  with  sadness,  for  it  Avas  a  proof  that  the 
woes  and  mockeries  of  travel  had  begun.  These 
good  people  would  certainly  have  preferred  their 
national  beverage,  beer;  but  the  German  hotel 
tables  d'hote  are  too  stuck-up  to  permit  beer-drink- 
ing, and  the  profits  on  wine  are  too  great  to  be 
sacrificed.  In  some  hotels  there  is  a  notice 
posted  to  the  effect  that  if  you  do  not  drink  wine 
the  dinner  will  be  reckoned  one  mark  dearer. 

After  a  tremendous  one-o'clock  meal,  I  sallied 
forth  to  explore  the  town,  and  found  it  gay,  ele- 
gant, well-kept,  and  prosperous.  The  old  town 
round  the  red  sandstone  cathedral  abounds  in 
quaint  corners  and  picturesque  narrow  streets. 
The  river,  with  its  bridges,  and  its  stream  dotted 
with  timber-rafts,  the  glimpses  of  the  town  and  its 
towers  and  spires,  the  panorama  from  this  point 
and  from  that — all  amuse  the  eye  and  provide 
subjects  for  the  photographer.  On  the  quay 
called  the  Schone  Aussicht,  or  belle  vue,  I  noticed 
on  No.  17  a  memorial-tablet  announcing  that  in 
this  house  Arthur  Schopenhauer  used  to  live,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  he  had  a  good  time  there,  his 
pessimistic  point  of  view  being  just  as  conducive 
to  happiness  as  any  other.  In  the  pursuit  of 
happiness  one  of  the  chiefest  conditions  of  suc- 
cess is  not  so  much  a  point  of  view  as  a  good 
stomach,  and  as  Schopenhauer  dined  contentedly 
for  many  years  at  a  table  (T/iote,  as  his  biographer 


190 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


tells  US,  I  conclude  that  he  must  necessarily  have 
been  a  man  of  singularly  serene  mind  and  imper- 
turbable powers  of  digestion. 

To  judge  from  the  display  in  the  shop-windows, 
the  Frankforters  are  especially  proud  of  two  things 
— the  marble  group  of  Ariadne  in  tlie  Bethmann 
Museum,  which  you  see  reproduced  in  all  mate- 
rials from  alabaster  down  to  gingerbread,  and  the 
imperial  family  and  the  three  emperors  of  iSSS. 
I  saw  the  three  emperors — old  William,  Fred- 
erick, and  young  William — stamped  on  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  cast  in  bronze  and  terra-cotta, 
carved  on  the  bowls  of  briar-root  pipes,  painted 
on  porcelain  pipes,  embroidered  on  sofa-cushions, 
printed  on  fearful  chromo-lithographs.  Photo- 
graphs of  the  Emperor  Frederick  on  his  death- 
bed, with  the  empress  shedding  big,  pear-shaped 
tears  on  the  counterpane,  and,  below,  the  inscrip- 
tion, "  Lerne  zu  leiden  ohne  zu  klagen,"  are  sold 
by  hundreds.  As  for  the  present  emperor,  his 
portrait  and  that  of  his  wife  and  children  are  to 
be  seen  ever}-where,  the  family  groups  being  es- 
pecially in  favor.  And  what  groups  ! — the  ideal 
of  a  Putney  green-grocer.  The  emperor,  in  uni- 
form, with  his  arm  round  the  empress's  waist, 
standing  on  the  brink  of  a  photographer's  imagi- 
nary  lake,  and  the  imperial  children  sitting  in  a 
"property'"  boat.  A  veritable  sentimental  Ger- 
man family  group ! 

Towards  nightfall  the  aspect  of  Frankfort  be- 


FRANKFORT.  191 

comes  ven^  interesting  and  amusing.  The  great 
show  street  and  promenade  in  Frankfort  is  the 
Ziel,  where  the  fine  shops  are  situated,  and  where 
the  beaux  and  the  belles  walk  up  and  down.  At 
evening,  too,  the  cafes  become  evident,  but  they 
are  not  audacious  and  flaunting  like  those  of 
Paris.  As  soon  as  the  gas  is  lighted  the  curtains 
are  closely  drawn,  and  some  of  the  best  cafes  are 
up  one  or  two  flights  of  steps,  on  the  first  or  sec- 
ond floors :  the  Frankforter,  like  the  Dutchman, 
seems  to  prefer  to  drink  his  beer  in  private,  far 
from  the  eyes  of  the  madding  crowd,  and  the 
spectacle  of  the  street  does  not  interest  him. 
Very  wonderful  are  some  of  these  cafe's,  notably 
one  in  the  Schiller  Strasse  :  a  monumental  place 
with  wrought-iron  vines  trailing  up  cast-iron  pil- 
lars and  branching  out  ingeniously  into  incommo- 
dious hat-pegs  ;  a  ceiling  decorated  with  the  signs 
of  the  zodiac,  intermingled  witli  cupids,  mon- 
keys, and  a  vague  '"Temptation  of  St.  Antony;" 
■walls  adorned  with  frescoes  in  the  st}-le  of  Schnorr 
von  Carolsfeld ;  a  stupendous  bar  presided  over 
by  a  statuesque  lady  of  Flemish  proportions ;  the 
whole  inundated  with  a  blaze  of  electric  light. 
In  this  cafe'  I  fought  successfully  against  a  gigan- 
tic glass  of  beer,  and  read  the  leader  in  the  An- 
zeiger,  in  which  the  writer  treated  the  subject  of 
"  Boulangismus,"  and  in  a  short  column  and  a 
quarter  found  means  to  quote  Aristophanes, 
Cicero,  and  Madame  Roland,  translating  the  orig- 


ig: 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


inal  in  foot-notes  for  the  benefit  of  the  less 
erudite.  Bravo,  Herr  Doctor  !  What  a  blessed 
thing  it  is  to  have  frequented  the  University  of 
Gdttingen,  and  to  have  learned  to  be  learned  with 
ostentation ! 

With  its  irregular  streets  and  irregular  houses, 
some  antique,  with  quaint  gables  and  innumera- 
ble windows  ;  some  modern,  surmounted  by  skele- 
ton signs  and  meshes  of  telegraph-wires ;  with  its 
multitude  of  Renaissance  cupolas  and  bulbous 
spires,  its  green  masses  of  shade -trees  looming 
up  out  of  the  mystfious  obscurity  and  contrast- 
ing with  the  glaring  electric-lamp  of  some  go- 
ahead  "  Restauration,"  Frankfort  at  night  is  sug- 
gestive at  once  of  New  York  and  of  Nuremberg ; 
it  is  a  charming  and  not  inharmonious  mixture  of 
past  and  present — of  old-time  ways  and  nineteenth- 
century  progress. 

But  why  come  to  Frankfort  ?  To  answer  this 
question  fully  would  require  an  historical  disserta- 
tion on  misunderstood  genius.  I  have  come  to 
Frankfort  to  see  half  a  dozen  pictures  in  the 
Stadel'sche  Kunst-Institut ;  not  the  flat-tinted 
abominations  of  Overbeck,  Schnorr,  Cornelius, 
and  the  German  school  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
which  Baedeker  considers  to  be  so  interesting, 
but  the  early  German  and  Flemish  masters,  two 
Velasquezes,  the  portrait  of  Lucrezia  Tornabuoni 
by  Sandro  Botticelli,  a  Madonna  by  Carpaccio, 
and  an  anonymous  work  of  the  Florentine  school 


FRANKFORT, 


of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  sight  of  this  last 
picture  alone  has  repaid  me  for  my  journey,  and 
impressed  upon  my  mind  a  souvenir  which  I  hope 
will  be  as  indelible  as  possible.  On  a  very  som- 
bre green  background  is  painted  a  half-length  fig- 
ure of  a  girl  just  budding  into  womanhood,  but 
still  retaining  something  of  that  adolescent  lean- 
ness which  Donatello  and  the  great  Florentines 
loved  to  render.  The  body  is  loosely  draped  in 
white,  over  which  is  thrown  an  olive-green  man- 
tle. On  the  brow  is  an  azure  band  of  trans- 
parent gauze ;  in  the  centre  of  the  brow  a  jewel ; 
while  on  the  head  is  wound,  turban-like,  with 
crinkled  folds,  a  white  scarf  which  falls  over  the 
back  of  the  neck  and  round  over  the  shoulders  ; 
the  turban  is  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  box-tree 
sprigs,  and  from  beneath  it  the  golden  hair  hangs 
down  over  the  shoulders  in  innumerable  finely 
waved  wire  curls,  each  distinct  from  the  other, 
resembling  literally  golden  rain,  through  which 
the  light  plays— a  miracle  of  the  coiffeur's  art  and 
also  of  the  painter's — not,  it  is  true,  of  the  paint- 
er's art  as  Rembrandt  understood  it,  but  as  it  was 
practised  by  the  primitive  Florentines,  who  were 
so  keenly  sensitive  to  elegance  and  minute  splen- 
dor of  raiment  and  ornament.  This  enigmatic 
blonde  maiden,  with  her  dark  eyes,  her  regular, 
tranquil  features,  her  dazzling  shower  of  golden 
ringlets  so  preciously  displayed,  her  exquisitely 
delicate  hand,  whose  slender-pointed  fingers  hold 
13 


194  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

a  bouquet  of  daisies  and  pansies — a  dainty  bou- 
quet of  five  blossoms,  and  no  more — is  so  fasci- 
nating, and,  as  the  French  would  say,  there  is  some- 
thing so  disturbing,  so  iroublant  in  her  slender 
and  almost  meagre  form,  that  when  once  you  have 
really  seen  and  felt  the  charm  of  this  picture  you 
have  stored  up  a  souvenir  for  life,  to  be  guarded 
jealously  in  the  most  select  corner  of  your  mem- 
ory. 

But  I  have,  I  perceive,  wandered  from  the  sub- 
ject, and  forgotten  even  to  indicate  the  historical 
dissertation  which  'vould  explain  my  journey  to 
Frankfort.  In  two  words  here  it  is :  If  Europe 
had  not  misunderstood  Napoleon  I.  we  should 
have  had  most  of  the  masterpieces  of  Western  art 
commodiously  displayed  in  the  Louvre  museum 
in  the  very  centre  of  civilization,  and  so  we  should 
not  need  to  travel  over  the  face  of  the  earth  in 
order  to  visit  unpronounceable  "  Stadel'sche  kunst- 
instituts"  in  out-of-the-vv'ay  towns  in  the  land  of 
"  patriotismus  "  and  "leberwurst." 


CASSEL. 

Statistics  show  Cassel  to  be  a  town  of  some 
60,000  inhabitants,  and  the  indulgent  observer 
would  doubtless  pronounce  it  to  be  an  animated 
commercial  centre.  It  boasts  a  vast  railway 
station;  a  monumental  "  Regierung "  or  govern- 
ment palace  ;  a  huge  post-office ;  and  a  handsome 
modern  Bilder  Gallerie,  in  the  most  approved 
Renaissance  style,  enriched  with  Greek  orna- 
ments, and  surmounted  by  reproductions  of  the 
bronze  winged  "  Victory  "  which  is  the  jewel  of 
the  IMuseum  Fredericanum,  There  is  a  steam- 
tramway  at  Cassel,  and  horse-cars,  and  well-paved 
streets.  But  all  this  is  of  little  interest :  the 
charm  of  Cassel  is  the  old  town,  such  as  the  elec- 
tors made  it ;  the  round  Konigs  Platz  ;  the  Gothic 
church ;  the  Friedrichs  Platz,  with  its  fine  eigh- 
teenth-century electoral  palace,  its  statue  of  the 
Landgrave  Frederick  II.,  its  Bellevue  terrace 
overlooking  the  tree-tops  of  the  Aue  Park  which 
Le  Notre  laid  out — the  Cassel  that  abounds  in 
quaint  old  houses  with  pointed  or  convoluted 
gables,  and  in  squares  and  irregular  places  planted 
with  luxuriant  shade-trees. 


196  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

At  the  end  of  the  Bellevue,  which  is  naturally 
the  fashionable  promenade  of  Cassel,  is  a  round 
temple,  or  belvedere,  in  the  Neo-Greek  style  in- 
vented by  the  French  architects  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  From  here  the  view  is  wide-sweeping 
and  imposing.  Beyond  the  park  you  see  the 
green  valley  of  the  Fulda  fading  away  into  the 
blue  distance,  where  the  purple  hills  close  it  around 
and  form  the  horizon ,  in  the  other  direction  you 
see  the  town  climbing  up  one  hill  and  down  an- 
other, and  finally  sloping  towards  the  old  castle 
and  the  Fulda  bridgt,  and  joining  the  open  fields. 
The  comparison  with  Athens  suggests  itself :  the 
Bellevue  is  the  Acropolis  of  Cassel  and  the  Bil- 
der  Gallerie  its  Parthenon.  Doubtless  this  com- 
parison must  have  occurred  to  the  old  landgraves 
who  vied  with  each  other  in  making  these  Ger- 
man Residenz  towns  centres  of  literary  and  ar- 
tistic culture,  and  who  ruined  themselves  and 
their  subjects  in  imitating  the  costly  splendor  of 
Versailles  and  the  magnificence  of  the  Grand 
Monarque.  In  the  making  of  Cassel  there  were 
three  influences  at  work  —  feudal,  French,  and 
Neo-Greco-Roman — exemplified  still  by  the  old 
Schloss,  by  the  Friedrichs  Platz,  and  the  Aue 
Park  laid  out  by  Le  Notre,  and  by  the  triumphal 
arch  of  the  Auethor  and  the  new  picture-gallery 
which  is  the  outcome  of  the  terrible  Neo-Greco- 
Roman  distemper  which  has  been  devastating 
Germany  for  now  a  century. 


CASS  EL.  197 

With  all  this,  Cassel,  the  Cassel  of  the  days  of 
the  electors,  is  complete  in  itself,  with  its  castle, 
its  archives,  its  library,  its  museums,  its  river,  its 
park,  and  charming  promenades.  All  that  is 
wanting  to  make  the  town  absolutely  ideal  is  a 
handsome  old  landgrave  at  the  head  of  a  literary 
and  artistic  court — a  landgrave  who  ^vould  ride 
in  a  gorgeous  coach  and  have  his  servants  dressed 
in  gay  livery.  If  while  strolling  one  evening  along 
the  Bellevue  the  landgrave's  coach  should  ap- 
pear, and  behind  it  that  of  the  Chevalier  Jacques 
De  Casanova,  recently  arrived  in  the  town  with 
swindling  intentions,  nobody  would  be  surprised 
or  embarrassed.  Like  all  the  ex-Residenz  towns, 
Cassel  has  retained  something  of  its  courtly  past, 
and  all  the  modern  improvements  seem  to  be 
mere  temporary  excrescences  that  have  no  raison 
d'etre. 

As  you  pass  along  the  Friedrichs  Platz  of  an 
evening  you  will  see  in  the  open  loggia  of  a  cafd  a 
whole  family — men,  women,  and  children — sitting 
calmly  around  a  few  beer-pots,  thinking  matters 
over  and  looking  for  all  the  world  like  one  of 
those  family  portraits  by  the  old  Dutch  masters — 
a  "  Familienbild  "  by  Gonzales  Coques,  for  in- 
stance. Such  a  group  might  be  taken  as  a  sym- 
bol of  the  town  of  Cassel :  it  is  an  old-fashioned 
place,  musing  sleepily  over  the  past  and  accepting 
the  present  without  enthusiasm,  as  if  it  were  all  a 
dream. 


198  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

Cassel  an  animated  commercial  town  !  This  is 
not  possible.  One  cannot  reconcile  these  spacious 
promenades  and  shady  squares  with  serious  busi- 
ness, except  of  such  a  kind  as  is  indicated  by  a 
frequent  signboard  on  which  is  announcdd  this 
strange  combination  of  commerce  :  "  Wood,  Coal, 
Bottled  Beer,  and  Potatoes  "  —  "  Holz,  Kohlen, 
Flaschenbier,  Kartoffeln."  And,  after  selling  the 
usual  amount  of  coal,  bottled  beer,  and  potatoes, 
the  good  tradesmen  of  Cassel  light  their  penny 
cigars,  and,  with  their  wives  and  children,  take  an 
evening  stroll  along  the  Bellevue,  admire  the 
"  Schone  Aussicht,"  and  so  to  bed.  On  Sundays, 
too,  in  summer,  they  will  take  the  tramway  to 
Wilhelmshohe,  to  see  the  fountains  play.  And 
so  they  pass  their  lives  in  sleepy,  charming  Cassel, 
where  even  the  spurs  of  the  military  men  clink 
discreetly. 

Nevertheless,  for  the  traveller  of  artistic  tastes, 
Cassel  must  always  remain  a  place  of  pilgrimage. 
The  museum  possesses  a  most  important  collec- 
tion of  pictures,  including  no  less  than  twenty 
Rembrandts  of  the  first  quality  —  notably  the 
painter's  wife,  Saskia  Van  Ulenbergh,  dressed  as 
a  bride  ;  the  portrait  of  Nicolaus  Bruyningh ;  the 
portrait  of  a  man  in  armor ;  and  "  Jacob  Blessing 
Ephraim  and  ^Manasseh."  In  order  to  see  such 
paintings  as  these  one  would  willingly  brave  the 
direst  etmui  and  the  most  porcine  developments 
of  German  cookery. 


BRUNSWICK. 

Next  after  Nuremberg,  Brunswick  is  noted  as 
the  finest  mediaeval  town  in  Germany.  This  repu- 
tation is  not  undeserved ;  for,  although  it  possess- 
es few  monuments  worth  speaking  of,  except  the 
old  Town  Hall  in  the  Altmarkt  and  some  fountains 
of  the  usual  slender,  wire-drawn,  old-German  style, 
Brunswick  is  composed  entirely  of  narrow,  tortu- 
ous streets,  lined  with  old  houses  with  overhang- 
ing gables  and  irregular  red-tiled  roofs,  such  as 
you  see  in  the  background  of  Albert  Diirer's  pict- 
ures. And,  curiously  enough,  these  houses  have 
been  repaired  and  rebuilt  for  the  most  part  in  the 
old  style,  the  only  liberty  taken  being  to  put  in 
some  modern  plate-glass  shop-fronts.  In  this 
maze  of  narrow  streets  several  lines  of  tramways 
run,  with  an  occasional  tinkling  of  bells  as  they 
round  the  corners ;  there  are  gas-lamps,  too, 
and  even  electric  lights  and  swaggering  cavalry 
soldiers,  and  other  modern  improvements  :  still, 
the  town  retains  its  mediaeval  aspect.  Every  step 
we  take  brings  us  face  to  face  with  something 
picturesque. 

So  much  for  the  old  town,  with  its  cathedral,  its 


4 


200  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

castle,  its  Burg  Platz,  its  Altmarkt ;  but  the  ker- 
nel of  the  town  is  all  that  remains,  the  shell  has 
been  transformed  entirely.  The  moat  is  navigable 
for  pleasure-boats  and  even  little  steamers ;  the 
ramparts  have  become  fine  promenades,  laid  out 
as  parks  and  gardens,  in  which  has  sprung  up  a 
girdle  of  modern  detached  or  semi-detached  villa 
residences,  with  bow-windows  and  conservatories, 
where  you  see  the  worthy  tenants  sitting  in  sol- 
emn state,  like  manikins  in  a  waxwork  show, 
watching  the  people  pass  and  repass.  On  Sun- 
day afternoon  and  '",vening  all  Brunswick  is  out 
on  the  ramparts — on  foot,  in  carriages,  or  on 
bicycles  and  tricycles ;  for  cycling  is  in  high  fa- 
vor in  northern  Germany,  and  I  even  saw  some 
young  ladies  with  divided  skirts  riding  tricycles, 
and  tearing  along  in  the  most  ungraceful  manner. 
But  in  spite  of  this  apparent  animation,  Bruns- 
wick is  a  terribly  dull  place  for  the  visitor :  in  a 
couple  of  hours  you  can  walk  all  round  the  town 
and  through  almost  all  the  streets.  Then  what 
remains  to  be  done  ?  Try  the  cafes  ?  They  are 
about  three  in  number,  and  all  equally  solemn. 
Sample  cigars?  This  would  be  too  terrible  an 
operation,  seeing  that  there  are  no  less  than  fifty- 
nine  varieties  of  cigars  at  six  a  penny,  all  equally 
deadly !  Hunt  the  streets  for  a  pretty  face  ?  This 
would  be  chimerical,  for  ever}'body  knows  that, 
except  in  Berlin,  pretty  German  faces  are  rare. 
Besides,  one  must  be  serious,  and  looking  for 


BRUNSWICK.  201 

pretty  faces  in  the  flesh  is  not  generally  consid- 
ered a  serious  occupation  ;  at  any  rate,  one  does 
not  travel  hundreds  of  miles  to  some  out-of-the- 
way  provincial  town  on  such  a  frivolous  errand. 
The  great  attraction  at  Brunswick  is  the  museum 
and  picture-gallery,  which  are  now  lodged  in  a 
magnificent  new  building  —  a  model  of  com- 
modious arrangement,  like  all  the  new  German 
museums. 

The  antiquities  and  objects  of  art  in  the  Bruns- 
wick Museum  are  not  of  the  first  importance,  al- 
though some  of  the  objects  are  of  historical  in- 
terest. On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  very  ad- 
mirable collection  of  Limoges  enamels,  and  a 
very  complete  series  of  Italian  painted  pottery  of 
the  Urbino  and  Faenza  marks.  These  objects, 
however,  appeal  mostly  to  specialists ;  while  the 
average  visitor  will  pay  more  attention  to  the 
picture-gallery,  which  is  peculiarly  rich  in  works 
of  the  secondary  masters  of  the  Dutch  school. 
The  pearl  of  the  Brunswick  Gallery  is  a  life-size, 
half-length  family  group,  by  Rembrandt,  which 
alone  repays  the  journey.  Against  a  background 
of  dark-green  foliage  the  father  stands  on  the 
left ;  on  the  right  the  mother  dances  a  baby  girl 
on  her  knee,  while  in  the  foreground  are  two 
other  children,  one  carrying  a  basket  of  flowers. 
The  mother  is  dressed  in  deep  red,  and  the  baby- 
girl  in  rose-red.  A  rich  golden  light  strikes 
across  the  faces,  and  touches  the  drapery  in  lu- 


202  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

minous  masses.  In  this  picture,  so  charming  in 
it^  simplicity  and  intimite,  Rembrandt  has  indulged 
in  a  veritable  painter's  feast  of  color.  Techni- 
cally, it  is  a  most  amusing  and  prodigious  piece 
of  work.  But  to  give  an  idea  of  a  picture  in 
words  is  impossible.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  I  shall 
never  regret  my  stay  at  Brunswick ;  the  vision  of 
this  wonderful  Rembrandt  stored  in  my  memory 
would  console  me  for  all  the  minor  inconveniences 
I  could  endure  in  a  twenty-four  hours'  stay  in  the 
town. 


MUNICH. 

My  first  holiday  ramble  this  yeai?  has  been  a 
run  to  Munich.  The  immense  railway  station  is 
a  model  station,  but  vast,  bare,  and  cold-looking. 
In  a  few  minutes  I  am  in  the  Maximilian  Strasse, 
in  an  immense  cosmopolitan  hotel.  The  elevator 
lands  me  on  the  third  floor;  an  elegant  blond 
valet  conducts  me  to  a  charming  room,  where  my 
first  movement  is  to  look  out  of  the  windows. 
How  amusing  is  this  first  look  out  of  a  high- 
porched  hotel  window,  over  the  roofs  and  spires 
and  towers  of  an  unknown  town  !  On  one  of 
these  roofs  I  notice  two  plumbers  at  work  ham- 
mering zinc.  They  are  whistling,  the  one  treble 
the  other  bass,  an  old  minuet.  These  excellent 
plumbers  are  evidently  practised  musicians,  and 
their  minuet  is  charming, 

"  Tabic  d'hote  at  5.30,"  suggests  the  waiter. 
Unearthly  hour !  It  is  now  past  2  o'clock. 
There  is  time  for  a  stroll  through  the  town  before 
dinner.  Which  way  ?  I  know  not  and  it  matters 
little.  To  know  the  way  is  to  lose  the  pleasure 
of  exploring.  Maximilian  Strasse  ?  Very  good  ; 
I  will  go  down  this  broad  Maximilian  Strasse, 


204  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

which  seems  to  be  the  fashionable  promenade 
and  the  fashionable  shopping  quarter.  Here  are 
picture-shops  and  milliners'-shops  and  tobacco- 
shops  and  cafe's,  colossal  cafe's  with  prim  little 
waitresses  dressed  in  black.  Here  the  broad 
street  spreads  out  into  a  square  adorned  with 
gardens  and  shady  trees,  and  lined  with  tall,  yel- 
lowish, stuccoed  buildings  in  a  sort  of  Tudor  style 
of  architecture.  On  the  right,  that  immense  build- 
ing is  the  National  Museum,  the  South  Kensington 
of  Munich.  Then  the  street  continues,  between 
gardens  and  villas,  Ui^il  it  crosses  the  bridge  over 
the  swift-rolling  Isar,  and  divides  into  two  branch- 
es to  pass  round  the  hill,  on  the  top  of  which  is 
built  the  Maximilianeum,  a  lofty  pavilion  flanked 
by  towers  and  by  a  double  tier  of  arcades  and  log- 
gias. The  summit  of  the  building  is  crowned  by 
a  bronze  Victory;  above  the  lower  arcades  are 
busts  of  celebrated  men,  and  the  walls  are  deco- 
rated with  frescoes  now  much  deteriorated. 

Following  the  shady  promenade  along  the  Isar, 
I  arrived  at  the  Zweibriicke  Strasse,  which  runs 
almost  parallel  with  the  Maximilian  Strasse  and 
traverses  the  old  town,  passing  under  the  Isar- 
Thor,  which  is  one  of  the  old  mediaeval  gates  and 
watch  towers,  very  much  restored  and  adorned 
with  a  long  frieze  in  gaudy  colors  of  no  great 
artistic  merit,  representing  a  triumphal  entry  of 
Louis  V.  of  Bavaria.  Passing  through  this  gate 
we  come  to  the  Marienplatz,  on  one  side  of  which 


MUNICH.  205 

is  the  new  Gothic  Town  Hall,  and  on  the  other 
sides  quaint  old  houses  very  much  bepainted  and 
illuminated  with  arabesques,  just  as  you  see  in 
the  fagades  designed  by  Holbein.  The  column, 
too,  is  a  charming  piece  of  seventeenth-century 
work.  It  is  of  red  marble,  surmounted  by  a  statue 
of  the  Virgin,  and  at  the  four  corners  are  winged 
genii  combating  a  viper,  a  basilisk,  a  lion,  and 
a  dragon,  which  symbolize  Plague,  War,  Famine, 
and  Heresy.  This  Marienplatz,  with  its  column, 
its  Gothic  Rath-haus,  its  steep  roofs,  pierced"  with 
five  or  six  tiers  of  attic  windows,  its  painted  and 
ornate  facades,  and,  at  one  end,  the  old  Rath-haus, 
the  watch  tower,  and  the  antique  gate  barring  the 
way,  has  a  strong  stamp  of  ancient  respectability  ; 
indeed,  it  only  lacks  burgesses  in  mediaeval  cos- 
tume, instead  of  in  English  cheviots,  to  present 
the  complete  illusion  of  a  street  scene  by  Wohl- 
gemuth or  Van  der  Weyden. 

My  topographical  instinct  warning  me  to  bear 
to  the  right,  I  found  myself  within  the  precincts 
cf  the  old  palace,  with  its  picturesque  courtyards 
and  fountains,  frequented  by  gossiping  maidens 
whose  babbling  reminded  one  of  the  scene  in 
"  Faust "  where  Lieschen  at  the  well  publishes  her 
"chronique  scandaleuse"  in  presence  of  poor 
Gretchen.  Then,  crossing  the  Maximilian  Strasse. 
I  wandered  through  the  courts  of  the  old  Resi- 
denz,  which  strongly  suggest  the  quadrangles  of 
the  Oxford  colleges,  especially  of  jNIerton  ;  caught 


206  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

a  glimpse  of  the  Hofgarten,  surrounded  by  vast 
arcades  decorated  with  mouldering  frescoes,  and 
so  out  into  the  broad  Ludwig  Strasse,  at  one  end 
of  which  is  a  triumphal  arch  copied  from  that  of 
Constantine  at  Rome,  and  surmounted  by  a  bronze 
chariot  drawn  by  four  lions  which  obey  the  rein 
of  a  majestic  figure  of  Bavaria,  At  the  other  end 
of  the  street  is  a  reproduction  of  the  Loggia  dei 
Lanzi  at  Florence,  and  a  church  with  a  double 
campanile  and  humpbacked  cupolas — a  rococo 
church  adorned  with  a  profusion  of  dollish  statues 
and  complicated  voHites,  and  reminding  one  of 
the  Jesuit  churches  of  Rome.  The  Ludwig  Strasse, 
straight,  long,  broad,  and  magnificent,  is  lined 
on  either  side  with  yellow-colored  stucco  imita- 
tions of  famous  Florentine  palaces.  But  enough 
for  this  afternoon  ;  and,  turning  and  passing  with 
wondering  eyes  the  Post-office,  whose  facade  is 
decorated  with  Pompeian  frescoes  on  a  red  ground, 
I  found  my  way  back  to  the  hotel  just  in  time  for 
dinner. 

I  do  not  formally  deny  progress,  but  yet  I  vent- 
ure to  think  that  a  table  d'hote  dinner  without  a 
host  is  not  one  of  the  most  brilliant  inventions  of 
modern  times.  I  regret  even  the  Old-World  tabk- 
cfhbte  Major,  whose  superficial  elegance,  thread- 
bare anecdotes,  and  commonplace  prattle,  at  any 
rate,  gave  a  semblance  of  animation  to  the  dining- 
room  and  helped  to  unfreeze  the  guests.  It  is 
bad  enough  to  have  to  eat  roast  mutton  with  un- 


MUNICH.  207 

dressed  salad  and  green-gage  jam ;  but  when  you 
are  furthermore  forced  to  eat  it  in  silence,  your 
digestion  is  liable  to  be  painful.  This  Munich 
table  (Thbte  was  one  of  the  saddest  I  have  seen. 
The  women  chewed  bread-crumbs  to  give  them- 
selves a  countenance ;  the  men  looked  gloomy  and 
scarcely  dared  to  exchange  a  few  words  in  a  whis- 
per, and  an  army  of  blond  waiters,  under  the 
command  of  a  bloated  chief,  operated  in  military 
fashion,  each  having  his  fixed  post.  At  the  sound 
of  an  angry  bell  brusquely  breaking  the  silence, 
there  was  a  tramp  of  creaking  boots,  and  the  vari- 
ous battalions  marched  out  of  the  room.  At  a 
second  bell  they  marched  in  again,  two  by  two, 
one  carrying  a  dish  of  meat  or  vegetables,  the 
other  bearing  aloft  a  bowl  of  sauce.  And  this 
marching  to  and  fro  lasted  for  one  hour  and  a 
half. 

Free  at  last,  I  escaped  into  the  Maximilian 
Strasse,  sat  down  outside  the  hotel,  and  watched 
the  movement  of  the  street,  which  was  full  of 
promenaders,  few  of  whom  nature  had  blessed 
with  good  looks.  Soldiers  abounded,  of  course, 
and  enlivened  the  gray  street  with  their  uniforms 
of  blue  bound  with  scarlet  and  olive  green  bound 
with  carmine.  What  a  profusion  of  salutations, 
and,  even  on  the  part  of  civilians,  what  generous 
and  wide-sweeping  cap  courtesy !  I  crossed  the 
road  and  entered  a  cafe  full  of  military  men  and 
civilians.     Suddenly,  having  emptied  his  pot  of 


208  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

beer,  a  little  fat  soldier  rose  from  his  seat,  buckled 
on  his  sword,  marched  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room  where  an  officer  was  sitting,  danced  round 
to  full  face,  saluted,  danced  round  again  with  a 
clanking  of  spurs,  and  then  marched  out  with  the 
air  of  a  man  satisfied  with  himself  and  conscious 
of  accomplished  duty. 

What  a  beer-drinking  place  it  is !  One  of  the 
first  things  that  struck  me  in  my  afternoon  walk 
was  the  number  of  beer  saloons  and  the  multitude 
of  servant  maids  whom  I  saw  in  the  streets  carry- 
ing glass  pots  with  polished  pewter  lids  and  han- 
dles. These  pots,  I  noticed,  were'  invariably  only 
half  full  of  beer.  Why  so?  Do  the  servant 
maids  of  Munich  enjoy  the  right  of  drinking  half 
the  beer  they  buy,  or  are  there  no  half  measures  ? 
What  is  this  mystery  ?  Furthermore,  I  saw  many 
soldiers  walking  along  the  streets  carrying  single 
pots  of  beer  or  series  of  twelve  pots  arranged  in 
portable  racks.  In  one  of  the  passages  of  the  old 
Residenz  I  even  saw  a  sentry  standing  in  his  box 
and  keeping  guard  over  six  empty  beer  pots.  In 
the  guard-rooms,  through  the  open  doors,  I  saw 
long  tables  dotted  with  beer  pots,  and  soldiers 
hiding  their  faces  in  capacious  pewters.  In  the 
cafes  I  saw  civilians — men,  women,  and  children 
— drinking  beer,  some  out  of  glasses,  some  out 
of  glass  pots  with  pewter  lids,  and  others  out  of 
gray  stonevvfare  mugs,  also  with  lids.  Why  these 
distinctions  ?    And  each  one,  after  taking  a  hearty 


MUNICH.  209 

draught,  shut  down  the  lid  of  his  pot.  In  this 
cafe  where  I  was  sipping  my  demi-tasse  these  stu- 
pendous beer -drinking  operations  were  in  full 
swing.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  How  to  pass  the 
evening  ?  I  asked  for  a  local  newspaper  to  find 
the  list  of  amusements  ;  nothing  but  beer  gardens ! 
Beer,  beer,  beer,  wherever  you  turn.  "  Hofbrau," 
"  Englishes  Cafe',""Spatenbrau,"  "  Lowenbraukel- 
ler,"  "Grosse  Concerte,  brillante  electrische  Be- 
leuchtung.  Ausgezeichnetes  Lagerbier."  Evi- 
dently beer  drinking  was  the  chief  industry  of  the 
Bavarian  capital,  and  so  it  became  my  duty  to 
visit  the  most  distinguished  soaking  establish- 
ments. 

The  tramway  landed  me  at  Stiegelmaierplatz, 
and  before  me  was  an  immense  building  resem- 
bling a  mediaeval  castle  nicely  restored,  surround- 
ed by  vast  terraces  and  gardens,  and  adapted  to 
modern  requirements.  This  was  the  Lowenbrau- 
keller  ;  "  accommodation  for  6000  visitors  ;  mon- 
ster concerts  daily  by  one  or  more  orchestras; 
vorziiglich  gewahlte  kiiche."  At  the  little  tables 
on  the  terraces  were  hundreds  of  beer  drinkers  in 
family  and  social  parties.  Inside  the  beer  castle 
is  an  immense  hall,  whose  open  roof  is  supported 
by  gray  marble  pillars  festooned  with  gigantic 
garlands  of  greenery  tied  up  with  gaudy  ribbons. 
The  walls  are  frescoed  with  inscriptions  such  as 
this  :  "Trink  Gesundheit  Dir  und  Kraft — Beides 
liegt  im  Gerstensaft." 
14 


2IO  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

At  one  end  of  the  room  is  a  gallery  for  the 
orchestra;  at  the  other  a  counter  laden  with 
beer  pots,  dough  puddings,  sauerkraut,  steaming 
sausages,  cold  veal,  green-gage  jam,  beef,  ham, 
and  all  kinds  of  food ;  while  the  floor  of  the  hall 
is  occupied  by  row  after  row  of  brown  wooden 
tables.  Every  seat  is  taken ;  some  visitors  are 
helping  themselves  at  the  counter ;  others  are  be- 
ing served  by  ugly  waitresses ;  the  words  "  Ein 
moss !  zwei  moss  !"  re-echo  from  table  to  table  ; 
disks  of  brown  felt  are  placed  under  the  pots,  and 
the  adepts  decorate  the  handles  of  their  "moss" 
with  a  little  plush  doll  or  with  a  miniature  es- 
cutcheon bearing  the  arms  of  their  country — little 
knick-knacks  which  are  sold  by  basket  venders 
who  walk  about  the  room  selling  cigars  and  fancy 
goods.  And  whichever  way  you  look  you  see 
people  with  paper  napkins  tucked  around  their 
necks,  eating  horribly  indigestible  food,  drinking 
beer,  talking,  or  listening  to  the  orchestra  which 
is  playing  the  "Rheingold"  and  other  gems  of 
incomprehensible  ennui  from  the  repertory  of  the 
late  lamented  Wagner.  Over  the  tables  hovers  a 
cloud  of  tobacco  smoke,  thick  enough  to  dull  even 
the  glaring  electric  lights  suspended  from  the  ceil- 
ing. What  a  strange  sight !  What  a  picture  of 
refined  civilization  is  presented  by  this  immense, 
dazzling,  smoky  saloon,  with  its  swarm  of  men, 
women,  and  children  eating  and  drinking ;  with 
its  waitresses  hurrying  along  carrying  twelve  mugs 


MUNICH.  211 

of  beer  at  a  time  ;  with  its  newspaper  sellers  ;  with 
its  frowsy  old  women  who  offer  mean  bouquets 
and  buttonhole  nosegays  out  of  a  soup  plate  !  It 
is  curious  how  little  noise  there  is.  There  are  no 
cries,  no  shouting  of  waiters,  no  clattering  of  dom- 
inoes as  in  a  Parisian  cafe.  Even  the  applause  is 
phlegmatic.  As  for  the  public,  it  is  most  decent 
and  respectable  and  unsympathetic.  The  pasty- 
faced  blond  habitues  who  strut  and  swagger  and 
wear  strange  hats  are  obviously  conceited,  but  they 
are  polite,  but  polite  because  they  are  conceited. 

This  is  a  typical  beer  saloon  of  the  first  order. 
In  other  less  distinguished  establishments  you 
find  a  smaller  orchestra  or  no  orchestra  at  all. 
In  some  the  waitresses  are  costumed ;  in  some 
empty  barrels  do  service  as  tables,  but  in  all  of 
them  you  see  the  same  blond,  bloated,  heavy,  be- 
spectacled, calm  crowd,  smoking  and  soaking  and 
pondering  over  the  eternal  antinomies.  In  a  mo- 
ment of  hasty  judgment  one  might  be  tempted  to 
sum  up  and  symbolize  the  whole  sedentary  life  of 
Munich  in  a  beer  pot,  and  the  active  life  of  the 
city  in  a  ceremonious  salutation. 

The  next  morning  I  started  betimes  further  to 
explore  the  city.  Crossing  the  Ludwig  Strasse  I 
followed  the  Brienner  Strasse,  which  led  me  to  a 
resuscitation  of  the  Propylaea  of  Athens  and  two 
Greek  temples  in  the  Corinthian  style,  adapted 
for  use  as  picture  and  sculpture  galleries.  Then, 
bearing  to  the  right,  I  arrived  at  two  immense 


212  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

box-like  structures,  the  new  and  the  old  Pinaco- 
thek.  I  spent  the  morning  in  the  Glyptothek  and 
in  the  new  Pinacothek.  The  afternoon  was  taken 
up  by  another  stroll  through  the  town,  visits  to 
the  churches,  and  general  inspection,  and  in  the 
evening  I  summed  up  my  impressions. 

Munich  is  a  curious  and  unique  cit}',  for  it  was 
not  produced  by  the  normal  phenomena  of  the 
slow  agglomeration  of  human  beings  around  a 
central  point,  whether  citadel,  cathedral,  market- 
place, or  port ;  nor  has  it  grown  up  from  century 
to  century,  street  by  street  and  house  by  house. 
Modern  Munich  sprang  up,  so  to  speak,  in  a  night, 
like  a  monstrous  mushroom  on  a  hot  bed  carefully 
prepared  and  fertilized  with  the  spawn  of  Attic 
and  Italian  fibre.  It  is  an  entire  city,  planned, 
begun,  and  completed  by  its  founder,  King  Lud- 
wig  I.,  and  enriched  with  churches,  museums, 
palaces,  theatres,  academies,  porticoes,  statues, 
and  ornamental  architectural  monuments  of  all 
styles  and  of  all  ages.  As  you  walk  through  the 
broad  streets  laid  out  so  admirably  from  the  point 
of  view  of  advantageous  perspective,  the  phantoms 
of  all  the  celebrated  edifices  of  the  world  appear 
before  your  eyes,  one  after  the  other,  in  chimerical 
reality,  unlike  the  models  and  yet  similar ;  and 
the  more  you  look  the  more  you  are  astonished 
to  find  in  one  and  the  same  town  monuments 
which  you  know  are  disseminated  in  so  many  dif- 
ferent towns,  and  the  sight  of  which  has  cost  you 


MUNICH.  213 

SO  many  long  journej's.  For,  like  the  Emperor 
Hadrian,  King  Ludwig  I.  caused  to  be  built  at 
Munich  copies  or  specimens  of  all  the  famous 
monuments  which  had  struck  him  in  the  course 
of  his  wanderings  as  an  artist  and  a  poet  before 
he  became  a  monarch.  The  idea  was  right  royal 
and  noble,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  copies 
were  executed  with  much  taste,  and,  above  all, 
with  rnuch  erudition.  And  yet  how  much  more 
delightful  and  interesting  is  the  old  town  around 
the  Marienplatz  than  the  modern  museum  town 
where  you  see,  here  a  fragment  of  Venice  without 
the  canals,  and  there  a  fragment  of  Florence  with- 
out the  pure  sky,  of  Rome  without  its  ruins,  of 
Athens  without  its  luminous  aridity  !  St.  Mark's, 
the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  St.  Paul  extra  vmros,  the 
Propylaa,  the  Parthenon,  have  all  been  trans- 
planted to  Munich.  The  whole  town  seems  to 
have  been  built  as  a  homage  to  some  mixed  and 
pedantic  Neo-Hellenic  ideal.  The  very  names  of 
the  buildings  are  Greek — the  picture  and  sculp- 
ture galleries  are  styled  Pinacothek  and  Glypto- 
thek.  And  yet  in  spite  of  their  merits  the  build- 
ings of  new  Munich  impress  one  as  being  utterly 
incongruous  in  such  a  climate  as  that  of  rainy 
Bavaria,  and  one  feels  no  joy  in  contemplating 
here  a  Greek  temple,  there  a  Flcrentine  arcade, 
leprous  with  mouldering  and  obliterated  frescoes, 
and  there  a  monstrous  structure  of  yellow  stucco 
in  a  pseudo-Tudor  style. 


214  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

The  new  Pinacothek  contains  a  resume  of  the 
curious  artistic  movement  which  produced  new 
Munich.  The  building  itself  is  absolutely  hide- 
ous ;  it  resembles  in  shape  a  gigantic  Saratoga 
trunk,  and  it  is  decorated  exteriorly  with  frescoes 
which  wind  and  weather  have  happily  effaced  or 
nearly  effaced.  But  the  original  oil  sketches 
made  for  these  frescoes  are  preserved  in  the  gal- 
lery inside  for  the  amusement  and  edification  of 
posterity.  There  are  eighteen  of  them,  all  comic 
in  their  sincerity,  all  celebrating  the  glory  of  the 
Maecenas  Ludwig  I.,  ind  all  illustrating  the  Hel- 
lene-Italic  craze  to  which  the  immense  error  of 
new  Munich  is  due.  The  funniest  is  an  allegory 
showing  Winkelmann,  Thorwaldsen,  and  Jacob 
Carstens  on  one  side,  and  Cornelius,  Overbeck, 
and  another  painter  on  the  other  —  the  latter 
three  mounted  on  a  winged  horse  and  charging, 
under  the  direction  of  Minerva,  a  three-headed 
and  bewigged  lion  monster  representing  the 
"Zopf,"  or  rococo  style.  These  artists  and 
learned  men  all  have  their  hair  smoothly  combed 
and  correctly  parted,  and  over  their  1830  frock- 
coats  they  wear  blue,  red,  and  yellow  draperies 
nicely  arranged  in  truly  classical  folds.  Under- 
neath the  monster  we  see  a  tomb  in  which  are 
imprisoned  three  classical  maidens  draped  a  la 
Burne  Jones,  who  have  been  keeping  alive  the 
lamp  of  art  in  this  narrow  dungeon.  As  the 
"Zopf"  monster  has  only  three  heads  and  one 


MUNICH.  215 

body,  whereas  the  attacking  artists  have  six  heads 
and  six  bodies,  to  say  nothing  of  Minerva  and  the 
winged  horse,  we  feel  sure  on  which  side  victory 
shall  perch.  In  another  of  Kaulbach's  sketches 
we  see  the  "  Studio  of  German  Artists  of  the  New 
School  at  Rome."  Outside  a  ruined  gate  painters 
and  sculptors  with  queer  felt  hats,  long  hair,  and 
artistic  cloaks  draped  over  their  old-fashioned 
broadcloth,  are  seen  crowded  together  and  stand- 
ing in  one  another's  light  as  they  carve,  sketch, 
and  paint  Transteverine  models  and  Roman 
peasants  disguised  as  Bacchuses  or  the  goat- 
legged  Silenuses.  There  they  are,  Kaulbach, 
Cornelius,  Klenze,  Peter  von  Hess,  Overbeck, 
Thorwaldsen,  Schwannthaler,  Rottmann,  Schran- 
dolph,  and  the  others  who  devoted  their  lives 
and  talents  to  the  most  colossal  and  misguided 
effort  ever  made  to  resuscitate  antiquity. 

In  the  museums,  in  the  churches,  in  the  palaces 
you  see  the  works  of  the  famous  Munich  school 
of  forty  years  ago,  that  school  which  enjoyed  un- 
paralleled facilities  for  developing  and  manifest- 
ing its  talent,  inasmuch  as  King  Ludwig  furnished 
not  only  unlimited  money,  but  also  unlimited  wall 
space  for  decoration — acres  of  fresco  and  para- 
sangs  of  canvas.  And  yet  how  pitiable  is  the 
result !  Cornelius  and  his  less  illustrious  con- 
temporaries are  all  very  learned,  and  fully  justi- 
fied their  philosophical,  scientific,  and  aesthetic 
pretensions.     From  a  literary  point  of  view  we 


2l6  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

must  say  that  they  compose  well.  In  the  vast 
frescoes  of  the  improvised  churches  of  Munich 
the  historian  and  the  antiquary  can  detect  no 
errors.  Hesiod,  Homer,  the  Bible,  the  Christian 
Fathers,  Winkelmann,  Ottfried  Miiller,  Herder, 
Fichte,  Hegel,  Creuzer  and  his  treatise  on  sym- 
bolism, are  equally  familiar  to  these  erudite 
painters,  for  whom,  as  Theophile  Gautier  has  well 
said,  "art  is  little  more  than  a  kind  of  writing 
which  they  use  to  render  their  ideas  —  writing 
which  is  hieratic  rather  than  demotic,  and  which 
one  must  know  how  ♦:o  read.  Orcagna,  Gozzoli, 
Memmi,  Perugino,  Van  T'.yck,  Diirer,  Cranach, 
Holbein,  are  all  well  known  to  them  ;  they  do  not 
disdain  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael ;  the  only 
thing  they  have  neglected  to  do  is  to  open  their 
eyes  to  living  nature,  to  look  simply  at  men,  wom- 
en, and  children,  at  the  sky,  at  verdure,  and  at 
water." 

It  is  indeed  a  curious  fact  that  these  famous 
Munich  painters  do  not  seem  to  have  had  the 
power  of  seeing  anything  directly.  Their  too 
perfect  artistic  education  rendered  them  insensi- 
ble to  the  actual  spectacle  of  nature.  They  see 
everything  through  the  eyes  of  their  predecessors. 
Furthermore,  few,  if  any  of  them,  are  painters. 
They  seem  to  hate  the  palette,  and  when  once 
they  have  expressed  their  idea  coldly  and  abstract- 
ly in  charcoal  they  leave  their  pupils  to  lay  in  the 
color.     These  men  lack  neither  intelligence  nor 


MUNICH.  217 

skill  nor  talent.  But  v/hat  they  do  lack  essential- 
ly is  the  painter's  temperament,  which  always  be- 
trays itself  in  the  vaguest  brush  stroke  ;  they  have 
great  powers  of  conception,  but  their  sentiment 
of  art  is  null.  Take  the  greatest  of  the  band, 
Cornelius,  and  examine  his  work ;  it  is  simply  a 
vast  mosaic  of  motives  taken  right  and  left ;  the 
omniscience  of  the  painter  has  always  a  form 
ready  made  for  his  idea,  borrowed  from  some 
masterpiece  of  the  past ;  his  work  is  like  the  city 
of  modern  Munich  itself,  a  dolorous  and  incon- 
gruous patchwork. 

One  might  examine  the  very  interesting  Nation- 
al Museum,  the  Bavarian  South  Kensington,  and 
in  the  same  way  demonstrate  that  its  influence  has 
been  perverted  precisely  by  the  spirit  of  erudition 
which  Cornelius  has  bequeathed  to  his  successors 
in  industrial  as  well  as  in  pictorial  art.  As  an  his- 
torical collection  of  national  art  the  Munich  Na- 
tional Museum  is  very  remarkable,  and  its  effect 
may  be  seen  in  all  the  shops  of  Munich  :  it  has 
simply  filled  the  industrial  artists  with  erudition, 
paralyzed  their  inventive  powers,  if  ever  they  had 
any,  and  reduced  them  all  to  slavery ;  for  now 
their  whole  activity  is  absorbed  in  reproducing 
the  ancient  objects  exhibited  and  ticketed  and 
catalogued  in  their  museum.  The  industrial  art 
of  modern  Munich  is,  therefore,  like  the  painting 
of  Cornelius,  and,  like  the  city  itself,  patch-work. 

But,  happily,  one  does  not  go  to   Munich  ex- 


2l8  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

clusively  to  study  the  city  and  to  see  what  to 
avoid  in  art  from  the  productions  of  CorneUus 
down  to  those  of  Piloty  and  Gabriel  Max.  The 
great  attraction  of  the  place  is  its  old  Pinacothek, 
with  its  rich  store  of  works  by  the  old  Germans 
— Wohlgemuth,  Diirer,  Schaffner,  and  Rogier  Van 
der  Weyden  :  its  gorgeous  array  of  pictures  by 
Rubens,  and  its  few  choice  gems  by  Rembrandt, 
Raphael,  Tiepolo,  Ribera,  and  Pieter  de  Hoogh. 
Munich  is  decidedly  an  interesting  city — interest- 
ing because  it  is  unlike  any  other  city,  and  interest- 
ing also  by  reason  of  its  irritating  incongruity. 


LIMOGES. 

Limoges  is  one  of  those  many  interesting  towns 
of  which  the  guide-books  speak  sparingly  and 
suggest  that  the  tourist  may  see  it  thoroughly  in 
a  single  day.  Doubtless.  And  the  next  day  he 
will  have  forgotten  all  about  it.  There  are  two 
points  of  view  from  which  Limoges  is  of  very 
great  interest — first  of  all  as  a  mediaeval  town, 
and,  secondly,  as  the  centre  of  French  porce- 
lain manufacture.  Modern  improvements,  broad 
streets,  and  fine  new  buildings  are  not  unknown 
at  Limoges,  but  the  greater  part  of  the  town  is 
composed  of  narrow  streets  about  two  yards  wide, 
lined  with  quaint  old  houses  built  centuries  ago, 
with  red  and  crinkled  tile-roofs  projecting  over 
the  roadway,  gables  at  all  possible  angles,  tim- 
bers forming  net-work  over  the  walls,  and  Gothic 
or  Roman  entrances  with  doors  studded  with 
big  nails  like  the  doors  of  a  prison.  The  general 
aspect  of  the  town  is  most  picturesque.  It  is 
built  on  two  hills,  that  rise  and  form  a  sort  of 
amphitheatre,  from  which  you  see  the  river  Vienne 
winding  through  an  immense  valley.  On  the 
summit  of  one  of  these  hills  is  the  cathedral ;  and 


2  20  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS.  ' 

on  the  summit  of  the  other  the  churches  of  Saint 
Michel  des  Lions  and  Saint  Pierre,  each  possess- 
ing fine  and  bold  spires.  The  guide-books  will 
tell  )^ou  all  about  the  churches  and  abovit  the 
beautiful  though  sadly  mutilated  Jube,  in  pure 
Francois  I.  style,  in  the  nave  of  St.  Etienne. 
These  Gothic  monuments  merit  careful  examina- 
tion ;  but,  after  all,  one  can  understand  that  the 
traveller  may  grow  tired  of  seeing  Gothic  archi- 
tecture. 

Let  us,  therefore,  say  no  more  about  the 
churches,  but  rather  ramble  along  the  tortuous 
old  streets  and  see  the  inhabitants  and  their  ways 
of  living.  Starting  from  the  Place  St.  Etienne, 
in  front  of  the  cathedral,  we  will  bear  to  the  left 
and  descend  the  Rue  des  Petits  Carmes  towards 
the  river.  The  more  rapid  the  descent  becomes, 
the  more  strange  is  the  silhouette  of  the  houses, 
with  their  red-tile  roofs  rising  in  tiers  one  above 
the  other,  with  poles  extending  horizontally  from 
the  windows  for  hanging  sun-screens  upon,  and 
with  the  upper  story  open  to  the  air  and  forming 
a  sort  of  loggia.  The  street  is  full  of  women  and 
children,  mixed  up  with  brindled  dogs  and  chick- 
ens. In  the  smoky  interiors  the  fire  slumbers  on 
the  hearth,  but  most  of  the  domestic  operations 
seem  to  take  place  in  the  gutter,  for  the  street  is 
so  steep  and  narrow  that  vehicles  can  scarcely  ven- 
ture into  it  to  disturb  the  inhabitants.  Looking 
down  the  street,  we  see  an  old  Roman  bridge  with 


LIMOGES.  221 

half-oval  refuges  on  each  side,  and  beyond  that 
the  faubourg  and  green  hills  rising  gently  to  the 
horizon.  At  certain  hours  of  the  day  a  proces- 
sion of  washerwomen,  with  clanking  wooden  shoes, 
labors  up  the  street,  bending  beneath  burdens 
of  linen  which  they  carry  on  their  backs  slung 
from  a  band  called  serpeliere,  which  passes  across 
their  foreheads,  their  heads  bound  tightly  with  a 
kerchief  of  brilliant  check  cotton.  The  Limoges 
washerwomen  occupy  both  banks  of  the  Vienne, 
which  are  studded  with  slabs  of  granite,  on  which 
they  beat  their  linen  with  battoirs  in  the  shape  of 
a  flattened  mallet.  These  hard-working  women 
are  the  wives  of  the  watermen  who  from  time  im- 
memorial have  lived  in  this  particular  quarter  of 
the  town,  which  is  called  Le  Naveix,  from  the 
Latin  navigiii?n,  according  to  local  antiquaries. 
The  men  who  live  in  this  quarter  are  called  na- 
veteaiix,  and  their  business  is  to  guide  and  collect 
the  wood  which  is  floated  down  the  Vienne  from 
the  mountains  up  the  river,  of  which  immense 
piles  are  stored  upon  the  banks.  This  custom 
of  floating  loose  fire-wood  is  known  only  on  the 
Vienne,  and  the  curious  weirs  that  we  see  just 
above  the  bridge  are  destined  to  catch  it.  One 
of  these  stockades,  or  rafniers,  stretches  across  the 
whole  breath  of  the  river,  and  two  smaller  stock- 
ades are  placed  a  few  score  yards  lower  down. 
The  ra?>iier  is  constructed  of  big  tree-trunks 
planted  in  the  bed  of  the  river  root  upwards,  and 


222  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  the  interstices 
being  filled  in  with  smaller  poles.  This  hedge 
stops  the  floating  wood,  and  the  naveteaux  in  their 
punts  drag  it  ashore  with  poles  and  hooks.  This 
method  may  not  be  the  best  possible,  but  the 
oldest  plans  of  the  town  show  the  rainier^  and  the 
naveteaux  have  always  plied  their  curious  trade 
as  it  is  plied  at  the  present  day.  This  is  a  suf- 
ficient reason  for  leaving  things  as  they  are,  es- 
pecially in  a  town  so  respectful  of  tradition  as 
Limoges  is. 

In  all  the  other  c'd  quarters  of  the  town  the 
stranger  notices  the  force  of  tradition,  Limoges 
has  remained  in  a  great  measure  unchanged 
since  the  Middle  Ages.  The  common  people  still 
talk  the  trilling  and  vibrating  Provencal  patois 
which  we  find  written  in  the  old  documents  of 
the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries.  The 
favorite  head-dress  of  the  women  is  still  the  bar- 
bichet,  which  we  see  portrayed  on  the  Limoges 
enamels  of  the  time  of  the  Renaissance — a  white 
cap,  slightly  starched,  with  broad  wings  falling 
from  the  forehead  and  floating  loosely  over  the 
shoulders.  The  very  dogs  of  Limoges  have  a 
mediaeval,  wolfish  look,  with  their  rough,  gray, 
brindled  coats  ;  and  the  few  horses  that  one  sees 
in  the  old  parts  of  the  town  are  of  the  most  un- 
improved and  primitive  lines.  But  horses  at  Lim- 
oges— and,  indeed,  in  all  the  Limousin  country — 
are  not  much  used ;  the  beasts  of  draught  are 


LIMOGES.  223 

oxen   and   cows,  which   one   sees,  harnessed   by 
twos  and  fours,  dragging  great  loads  by  a  simple 
band  across  the  forehead,  and  without  yoke  or 
other  harness.    How  obstinately  opposed  to  prog- 
ress these  Limousins  must  be,  one  thinks  as  one 
sees  their  primitive  teams.     But  the  Limousin  will 
reply  that  the  ox  is  the  traditional  draught-beast 
of  the  country — stronger,  more  patient,  and  more 
economical  than  the  horse.    A  yoke  of  oxen  costs 
600  francs,  and  after  working  three  or  four  years 
the  oxen  may  be  fattened  and  sold  to  the  butcher 
for  1200  francs  the  yoke.    The  cows,  which  maybe 
used  for  light  work,  give  every  year  a  calf,  which 
is  sold  for  100  francs ;    and  after  two  or  three 
years'  work  they,  too,  may  be  fattened  and  sold 
for  meat.     Furthermore,  if  any  accident  happen  to 
an  ox  his  carcase  is  always  good  for  meat,  where- 
as a  horse  that  has  to  be  killed  is  a  dead  loss. 
Finally,  two  oxen  will  pull  a  heavier  load  than 
four  horses  and  pull  it  for  a  longer  time.     So  say 
the  Limousins  ;  and  their  argument  seems  reason- 
able, and  their  business  prospers  ;  so  let  us  say 
nothing  more  about  progress,  and  admire,  without 
criticising,  the  gentle  yellow  oxen  that  stride  slowly 
along  the    Limoges   streets  with   fern   garlands 
hanging  from   their  horns  to  protect  them  from 
the  summer  flies.     Having  observed  none   but 
yellow  oxen  in  the  country,  I  asked  a  native  this 
morning  if  all  the  beasts  were  of  this  shade.    "  Mon 
Dieu !  monsieur,"  he  replied,  "  ce  n'est  pas  de- 


224 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 


fendu  d'avoir  des  bestiaux  d'une  autre  couleur !" 
But,  he  might  have  added,  it  is  not  the  custom. 

All  the  butchers  of  Limoges  are  members  of 
five  families ;  they  all  live  in  the  same  quarter  of 
the  town  ;  and  even  now  they  form  a  corporation 
and  observe  certain  usages  and  traditions  just  as 
their  ancestors  did  hundreds  of  years  ago.  The 
archaeologists  see  in  these  five  families  the  de- 
scendants of  the  butchers  who  beheld  the  victori- 
ous legions  of  Caesar,  and  whom  the  successive 
invaders  of  the  Limousin  country  maintained  and 
confirmed  in  their  privileges  on  account  of  the 
usefulness  of  their  services.  Existing  documents 
show  that  the  butchers'  corporation  was  legally 
constituted  in  the  eleventh  century,  and  since  then 
their  manner  of  life  appears  to  have  remained 
unchanged.  Ask  a  Limogean  to-day  about  the 
butchers,  and  he  will  tell  you  that,  in  spite  of 
their  sordid  and  filthy  houses,  and  in  spite  of 
their  poor  appearance,  the  butchers  are  very  rich, 
and  that  in  the  upper  parts  of  their  houses,  where 
no  stranger  ever  penetrates,  "  they  walk  on  car- 
pets" and  live  luxuriously.  You  will  be  told  also 
that  the  butchers  do  not  like  to  see  strangers  in 
their  street  or  in  their  chapel ;  and,  furthermore, 
that  they  are  proud,  quick  to  take  offence,  and 
not  easy  to  deal  with.  These  Limoges  butchers 
have,  in  fact,  been  looked  upon  for  centuries  as 
pariahs.  Until  the  last  century  no  butcher  mar- 
ried a  woman  not  belonging  to  his  caste ;  even  to 


LIMOGES.  225 

the  present  day,  like  the  Jews  in  the  past,  they 
affect  outward  signs  of  poverty  ;  and  the  idea  that 
strangers  are  not  welcome  in  the  quarter  of  the 
butchers  is  a  survival  of  the  old  usage  and  preju- 
dice. Formerly,  no  one  ever  passed  through  the 
butchers'  street;  on  the  days  and  at  the  hours 
fixed  by  the  consuls  of  the  town,  the  butchers 
sold  meat  in  the  public  market ;  then,  when  the 
market  was  over,  they  returned  to  their  quarter, 
shut  up  their  houses,  and  let  their  dogs  loose. 

The  Rue  de  la  Boucherie — or,  as  the  natives 
call  it,  in  reference  to  its  shape,  the  Rue  Torte — 
is,  I  suppose,  the  filthiest,  the  most  repulsive,  and 
the  most  picturesque  street  in  modern  Europe. 
It  is  a  steep  and  very  narrow  alley,  crooked,  like 
a  dog's  hind  leg,  and  lined  on  each  side  by  queer 
houses,  centuries  old,  with  roofs  projecting  far 
over  the  roadway,  walls  built  of  beams  and  cross 
timbers,  filled  in  with  lath  and  plaster,  and  a  third 
and  top  story  entirely  open  to  the  air.  The 
ground  floor  of  each  house  is  an  open  shop,  the 
front  of  which  is  garlanded  and  festooned  with 
quarters  of  animals,  bunches  of  livers  and  hearts, 
bouquets  of  bladders,  strings  of  red  and  bleed- 
ing meat,  calves'  heads,  sheep's  heads,  tripe,  and 
all  kinds  of  carnivorous  horrors.  The  counter 
stretches  over  the  gutter,  down  which  runs  a  foul 
stream,  polluted  with  offal  of  all  kinds,  and  under 
this  counter  the  butchers'  children  delight  to 
play,  in  company  with  the  cats  and  the  brindled, 

15 


226  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

gray,  medieval  butchers'  dogs.  Above  the  counter 
is  stretched  a  ragged  awning  of  bloodstained 
cloths.  The  inside  of  the  shops  is  as  horrible  as 
the  outside.  Imagine  a  cave  with  blood-bespat- 
tered walls,  smoke-blackened  rafters,  and  a  floor 
paved  with  irregular  slabs  of  granite  !  From  the 
ceiling  the  meat  hangs  from  long  iron  rods,  curi- 
ously twisted.  To  the  left  a  narrow  black  stair- 
case slants  steeply  into  the  upper  darkness.  At 
the  back  of  the  cave  a  gate  opens  into  a  smaller 
cave,  perfectly  dark,  where,  until  lately,  the  beasts 
were  stalled  and  Killed.  Beside  this  gate  is  a 
dresser  with  shelves  laden  with  the  family  Crock- 
er}' ;  near  by  are  the  family  chairs  and  table,  and 
at  the  big  open  fireplace  the  housewife  does  her 
cooking.  There  are  some  fifty  shops  in  this  Rue 
de  la  Boucherie,  each  one  occupied  by  a  member 
of  the  corporation  of  butchers,  and  each  one  form- 
ing a  queer  picture,  with  strong  effects  of  light 
and  shade,  reminding  one  of  Rembrandt.  In  the 
course  of  all  my  wanderings,  I  have  never  seen 
anything  like  this  Rue  de  la  Boucherie,  or  any- 
thing which  gives  one  so  completely  an  idea  of  a 
mediasval  street  and  of  mediaeval  life. 

The  butchers  are  irascible-looking  men,  with 
small  heads,  dull  eyes,  straight  and  delicate  or 
slightly  aquiline  noses,  chestnut  hair,  long  chins, 
sensual  mouths,  and  red  faces.  Their  general 
expression  of  countenance  is  rough  and  energetic ; 
their  voices  arc  brusque  ;  but  they  are,  neverthe- 


LIMOGES.  227 

less,  kindly  in  speech  and  polite.    The  women  are 
small,  pale,  and  anaemic-looking,  and  bear  marks 
of  a  race  worn  out  by  constant    intermarriage. 
The  fact  is  that  the  butchers  are  all  cousins.    The 
oldest  family,  according  to  the  tradition,  bears  the 
name  of  Cibot,  and  the  others  are  named  Pouret, 
Parot,  Malinvaud,  Inge,  and  Plainemaison.    Then, 
in  order  to  facilitate  identification,  each  one  has 
a  sobriquet,  which  becomes  hereditary,  like  the 
family  name — thus,  there   is    Cibot   Parpaillaud 
(butterfly),  Cibot  dit  Boileux  Pere,  Cibot  Minet 
dit  gendre  a  Simon,  Cibot  dit  le  Petit  Maltre  ;  the 
Malinvauds  are  nicknamed   Malinvaud-Chagrin, 
Malinvaud-Pipe ;   the   Parots   are  called  Naplat 
(flat-nose),  Che'rant  (selling  dear),  Fils  du  Canon- 
ier ;  a  Plainemaison  bears  the  sobriquet  of  Louis 
XVIII. ;  and  a  short  Pouret  is  known  as  Tan-Piti 
(so  little).     I  need  not  add  that  these  butchers 
speak  a  Limousin  patois  which  differs  but  slight- 
ly from  the  old  Limousin  dialect,  and  it  is  only 
lately  that  they  have  consented  to  send  their  chil- 
dren to  school  and  have  them  taught  good  French. 
I  have  spoken  of  the  butchers  as  still  forming 
a  corporation,  as  they  did  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
And  yet  in  1791  all  trade  corporations  were  abol- 
ished by  law.    How  then  has  this  of  the  butchers 
survived  ?     Through    their   obstinate   fidelity   to 
tradition  and  through  their  religious  propensities. 
The  Limoges  butchers  look  upon  Saint  Aurelien 
as  their  patron,  and  for  centuries  they  have  be- 


228  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

longed  to  a  Confrerie  de  Saint  Aurelien,  composed 
exclusively  of  the  members  of  their  families.  In 
the  middle  of  their  street  they  have  a  chapel  of 
their  own,  dating  from  the  fourteenth  century ; 
they  have  their  own  cure,  their  relics,  and  their 
two  great  annual  fetes  of  St.  Aure'lien  for  the 
meat  butchers,  and  of  Notre  Dame  des  Petits 
Ventres  for  the  tripe  butchers.  At  the  time  of 
the  Revolution  their  chapel  was  sold  at  auction, 
together  witli  the  sacristy  and  dependencies,  and 
bought  by  Barthelemy  Cibot  and  Maurice  Malin- 
vaud.  In  1S27,  when  the  country  became  once 
more  settled,  all  the  butchers,  heads  of  families, 
numbering  fifty-eight,  declared,  before  a  notary, 
that  the  chapel  had  been  bought  to  be  the  com- 
mon property  of  the  butchers,  and  the  price  paid 
by  all  the  butchers.  It  is  this  Confrerie  de  Saint 
Aurelien  which  keeps  the  butchers  together. 
Every  seven  years  they  meet  in  the  sacristy  of 
their  chapel,  and  elect  a  captain,  a  lieutenant, 
and  two  syndics,  each  of  whom  appoints  four  cor- 
porals. These  officers  form  a  sort  of  council, 
which  watches  over  the  religious,  social,  and  com- 
mercial interests  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  curious 
quarter  of  Limoges. 

The  organization  of  this  confrerie,  as  it  was  ex- 
plained to  me  by  the  captain,  is  very  complicated. 
It  will  suffice,  to  show  how  conservative  and  hon- 
est the  butchers  are,  to  say  that  the  chapel,  with 
all  the  working  of  the  confrerie,  is  supported  by 


LIMOGES.  229 

fixed  contributions  and  taxes  levied  on  cattle  and 
collected  by  the  syndics.  No  instance  is  known 
of  a  butcher  rebelling  against  these  taxes  or  re- 
fusing to  conform  to  the  traditions  of  the  confrerie. 
On  the  contrary,  the  butchers  are  proud  of  their 
traditions  ;  and,  in  spite  of  progress,  freethinking, 
anti-clericalism,  and  what  not,  they  continue  to 
regard  the  image  and  relics  of  Saint  Aurelien  as 
the  Palladium  of  their  homes  and  the  guardian 
of  their  prosperity.  They  are  even  ready  to 
defend  Saint  Aurelien  with  their  knives  and 
pikes ;  and  the  prefect  and  the  radical  mayor 
of  Limoges  have  not  dared  to  enforce  certain 
recent  anti-religious  laws  in  the  quarter  of  the 
butchers  for  fear  of  provoking  desperate  blood- 
shed. 

The  butchers  elude  in  some  way  the  French 
laws  of  succession.  For  instance,  the  eldest  son 
always  remains  in,  and  keeps  on  the  paternal  es- 
tablishment ;  but  during  the  life  of  his  father  he 
receives  no  fixed  salary.  The  father's  authority 
is  supreme,  and  he  disposes  of  his  property  as  he 
thinks  proper.  The  eldest  son  never  leaves  the 
paternal  house;  w'hen  he  reaches  the  age  of 
twenty -three  he  marries,  and  his  father  keeps 
and  lodges  him  and  his  wife,  and  allows  him  to 
sell  certain  offal,  which  brings  him  some  six  or 
eight  francs  a  week.  This  is  all  the  eldest  son 
can  earn  until  he  succeeds  his  father.  The  other 
children  leave  the  paternal  house  on  the  day  of 


230  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

their  marriage,  and   enter  the  service  of  other 
butchers,  generally  of  their  fathers-in-law. 

In  the  organization,  customs,  and  traditions  of 
the  Limoges  butchers  there  is  a  curious  sociologi- 
cal study  to  be  made.  I  have  only  briefly  indi- 
cated the  outlines  of  their  society,  thinking  that 
it  may  interest  the  reader  and  the  traveller  to 
know  that  there  are  still  some  remnants  of  the 
past  that  have  resisted  progress  of  all  kinds, 
whether  social,  commercial,  or  hygienic. 


REIMS. 

What  a  delightful  sensation  it  is  to  escape 
from  the  closeness  'of  a  great  city,  to  seat  yourself 
commodiously  in  a  railway  carriage  next  the  win- 
dow, and  to  be  carried  with  reasonable  speed 
through  a  fertile  expanse  of  hill  and  dale,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  a  clustering  village  and  an 
old  gray  tower  !  One  is  bent  upon  making  a  little 
tour — a  very  little  tour,  just  a  four-hours'  ride — 
to  see  a  Gothic  cathedral.  As  soon  as  you  have 
passed  the  barrier  of  the  fortifications,  the  coun- 
try begins,  and  the  green  Marne  River  meanders 
over  a  broad  valley,  quitting  and  returning  to  the 
railway  every  few  miles.  You  see  peasants  work- 
ing solitarily  in  the  fields  ;  they  rest  on  their  spades 
and  watch  the  train  pass.  On  either  side,  the 
track  is  lined  with  a  brilliant  hedge  of  flowers, 
poppies,  lupins,  sorrel,  and  feathery  grass,  running 
for  miles  and  miles,  and  interrupted  only  by  the 
railway  stations.  As  you  approach  Epernay,  the 
country  becomes  more  undulating,  and  the  vine- 
yards begin  ;  and  soon  you  see  in  all  directions 
nothing  but  hollows  and  slopes,  sweeping  away  to 
the  horizon,  all  bristling  with  millions  of  little 


232  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

Stakes,  around  which  the  vines  are  growing.  The 
aspect  is  not  that  of  luxuriant  vegetation,  but 
rather  of  pale-green  foliage  seen  through  a  veil  of 
lilac-gray  mist— an  effect  due  to  the  gray,  weather- 
stained  stakes,  the  tops  of  which  rise  above  the 
foliage  of  the  vines  and  catch  the  light  as  the 
helmets  of  serried  regiments  drawn  up  in  the  sun. 
Sillery,  Ai,  Avenay,  Rilly,  are  mere  names  of  bound- 
less vineyards,  where  vine-dressers,  male  and  fe- 
male, the  latter  sheltered  by  bonnets  two  feet 
six  inches  deep,  tend  with  never-ceasing  care  the 
grapes  destined  to  contribute  so  largely  to  the 
gayety  of  the  world,  literally  and  truly,  from  China 
to  Peru. 

As  you  approach  Reims  the  vineyards  cease,  the 
culture  becomes  poor,  and  the  town  appears  with 
a  surrounding  girdle  of  tall  chimneys,  in  the  midst 
of  which  the  cathedral  stands  proudly  out,  topping 
them  with  its  twin  towers.  At  the  station  I  was 
struck  by  the  stillness  of  everything  and  every- 
body. The  only  sound  was  the  gentle  fizzing  of 
the  locomotive,  the  click  of  the  greaseman's  ham- 
mer on  the  wheels  as  he  lounged  along  the  train, 
and  the  twittering  of  the  sparrows  in  the  roof. 
The  passengers,  mostly  business  people,  disperse 
calmly ;  in  the  station-yard  a  paternal  gendarme 
converses  in  mute  but  expressive  pantomime 
with  a  recalcitrant  poodle,  who  has  been  infring- 
ing some  rule  or  other ;  the  omnibus-drivers  and 
cabmen  sit  silent  on  their  boxes  and  in  no  way 


REIMS.  233 

suggest  that  their  services  might  be  of  use  to  you. 
It  appears  that  the  Mayor  of  Reims,  a  great  lover 
of  calm,  has  issued  strict  orders  and  decreed  ter- 
rible penalties  against  obtrusiveness  on  the  part 
of  the  coachmen.     Hence  this  silence. 

The  town  of  Reims  is  clean,  gray,  and  calm. 
One  cart  passing  along  the  great  Place  Drouet 
d'Erlon  re-echoes  terribly,  and  the  carter  hangs 
his  head  dolefully,  ashamed  at  the  noise  his  vehi- 
cle makes.  This  Place,  with  its  irregular  houses 
and  pointed  gables  resting  on  wooden  arcades,  is 
very  picturesque,  but  it  is  the  only  part  of  the 
town  that  has  that  quality  in  any  noticeable  de- 
gree. The  rest  of  Reims  is  a  conglomeration  of 
gray  streets,  looking  very  clean  and  comfortable  ; 
in  the  cottages  in  the  outskirts  you  see  hand-looms, 
and  men  and  women  making  merinos ;  along  the 
Boulevard  Ceres  are  fine  houses  with  balconies, 
where  the  rich  merchants  live,  and  beautiful  pub- 
lic gardens  adorned  with  rare  plants  and  flowers 
"  placed  under  the  safeguard  of  the  public."  But 
on  the  whole  there  is  little  to  see  at  Reims  except 
the  cathedral,  the  chui-ch  of  Saint  Remy,  and 
the  Champagne  Cellars. 

Thanks  to  the  accidents  of  provincial  hospital- 
ity, champagne  was  my  first  care  and  the  cathe- 
dral the  second.  On  the  outside  of  the  town,  in 
the  midst  of  gardens,  are  the  champagne  manu- 
factories and  cellars.  The  one  I  visited  was  a 
delightfully  calm  place  composed  of  a  garden  of 


234  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

ten  acres,  a  villa  occupied  by  offices,  and  an  im- 
mense shed.  Above  ground  there  was  little  show  \ 
below  ground  there  were  some  four  million  bot- 
tles of  champagne  stowed  away  in  catacombs 
reputed  to  have  been  hewn  out  of  the  chalk  bed 
by  the  Romans.  In  the  139  chambers  of  these 
lofty  catacombs  you  see  the  various  operations  of 
the  manufacturing  of  champagne,  a  natural  process 
directed  by  the  hand  of  man.  The  champagne 
manufacturers  do  not  generally  own  vineyards; 
they  buy  the  vintage  from  the  cultivators.  On 
the  one  hand,  the  French  peasant  loves  the  soil 
and  refuses  to  sell  his  land ;  on  the  other  hand, 
private  and  individual  cultivation  gives  better  re- 
sults than  cultivation  on  a  large  scale,  where  the 
care  about  details  is  less  minute  and  less  inter- 
ested. In  October  the  grapes  are  gathered,  pressed 
gently,  so  as  to  obtain  only  the  first  and  finest 
juice,  and  this  juice  is  barrelled,  and  placed  in 
the  catacombs  within  twenty-four  hours  after  the 
grapes  have  left  the  vine.  This  juice,  like  all  the 
champagne  wine  grown  on  chalky  ground,  has  two 
qualities,  fineness  and  bouquet.  In  December, 
when  this  juice  has  become  clear,  the  assemblage  is 
made — that  is  to  say,  the  juice  of  several  different 
vineyards  is  mixed  together,  for  each  champagne 
vineyard  has  some  particular  qualities  of  bouquet, 
body,  acidulation,  or  what  not,  by  the  proper  com- 
bination of  which  the  fine  brands  are  obtained. 
This  mixing  is  the  most  important  part  of  cham- 


REIMS.  235 

pagne  manufacture ;  on  it  depends  the  reputation 
of  a  brand  ;  and  if  it  is  badly  done,  it  may  result 
in  the  loss  of  large  sums  of  money.  And  so  the 
head-cellarman,  or  chef-cavisie,  whose  duty  it  is  to 
taste  and  make  the  mixture,  is  a  very  important 
personage,  although  he  goes  about  modestly  and 
subterraneously,  wearing  an  old  cap  and  a  long 
white  apron.  The  chef-caviste  is  not  often  a  man 
of  literary  culture,  or  even  a  practical  chemist ;  he 
has  simply  acquired  the  art  of  producing  and  ap- 
preciating delicate  distinctions  of  taste  by  experi- 
ence and  by  the  cultivation  of  a  naturally  delicate 
palate.  The  great  champagne  manufacturers  ac- 
knowledge the  services  rendered  by  such  a  head- 
cellarman  by  paying  him  a  salary  of  five  thousand 
a  year  —  25,000  francs.  The  assemblage  having 
been  made,  the  wine  is  left  in  the  barrels  at  least 
until  the  following  May,  and  drawn  off  from  time 
to  time  as  the  deposit  sinks  to  the  bottom  of  the 
cask.  In  May,  we  will  say,  the  wine,  being  appar- 
ently quite  clear,  is  drawn  off  into  bottles,  which 
are  corked,  and  the  cork  clasped  with  an  iron 
band.  The  newly  bottled  wine  is  left  for  a  month 
or  tv;o  above  ground,  in  a  moderate  temperature, 
until  fermentation  begins,  when  the  bottles  are 
taken  down  into  the  catacombs  and  stacked  hori- 
zontally, in  cubic  masses  of  ten,  twenty,  or  forty 
thousand  bottles,  as  the  case  may  be.  These 
bottles  are  left  in  the  same  position  for  two  years, 
during  which  the  wine  continues  clouding,  ferment- 


236  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

ing,  and  depositing  sediment.  At  the  end  of  two 
years  the  process  of  shaking  begins.  Each  bottle 
is  vibrated  every  day,  and  at  each  vibration  it  is 
replaced  in  the  rack  more  and  more  inclined  with 
the  neck  downwards.  The  object  of  this  vibra- 
tion is  to  detach  the  sediment  from  the  side  of 
the  bottle  and  cause  it  finally  to  be  entirely  de- 
posited in  the  neck  of  the  bottle  on  the  cork. 
During  this  process  of  two  years'  fermentation 
many  bottles  are  lost  by  bursting,  however  care- 
fully the  temperature  of  the  cellars  may  be  regu- 
lated, but  the  loss  in  these  vast  Roman  catacombs 
is  far  smaller  than  in  cellars  of  less  extent  and 
less  profundity.  The  bottles,  with  their  necks 
downwards,  are  now  taken  up-stairs  and  disgorged. 
In  this  process  a  man  holds  the  bottle  neck  down- 
wards and  cuts  the  iron  clasp.  The  cork  then 
flies  out,  together  with  the  foul  sediment.  The 
skill  of  the  workman  is  shown  in  allowing  all 
the  sediment  to  escape,  and  stopping  the  hole  at 
the  right  moment  with  his  thumb.  The  disgorged 
bottle  is  passed  on  to  the  doser,  who  sits  in  front 
of  an  apparatus  charged  on  one  side  with  purified 
wine  and  on  the  other  with  sugar-candy  dissolved 
in  fine  wine.  After  this  dosing  the  bottles  are 
corked,  cleaned,  and  dressed  for  the  market. 
Real  champagne  is  therefore  pure  wine,  made  of 
the  finest  part  of  the  juice  of  champagne  grapes 
of  different  vineyards  combined  together  and 
allowed  to  ferment  naturally.     The  champagne 


REIMS.  237 

brut  is  the  pure  wine  corked  directly  after  the 
disgorging  operation.  The  dry  champagne  which 
the  EngUsh  prefer  has  about  i  per  cent,  of  sugar 
candy  added,  and  the  percentage  of  sugar  is  in- 
creased to  suit  different  tastes.  The  French  re- 
quire the  addition  of  as  much  as  12  per  cent,  of 
sugar. 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  the  method  of  mak- 
ing champagne,  as  it  is  carried  on  in  the  obscurity 
of  these  catacombs  whose  chambers  open  one 
into  the  other  through  immense  portals  and  pas- 
sages that  remind  one  of  the  rock  temples  of  the 
East.  Each  workman,  carrying  his  candle,  moves 
noiselessly  and  works  silently;  the  sound  of  a 
clinking  bottle  seems  to  sink  into  the  dismal  chalk 
walls  without  an  echo  ;  underground  Reims  is  as 
calm,  silent,  and  staid  as  the  old  town  itself,  whose 
Mayor  prohibits  the  cracking  of  whips,  and  where 
recalcitrant  poodles  are  brought  up  to  compre- 
hend the  language  of  signs.  It  is  strange  that 
the  generator  of  so  much  gayety  should  itself  be 
generated  so  soberly. 

The  cathedral  of  Reims  is  the  perfection  and 
quintessence  of  all  that  is  beautiful  and  imposing 
in  Gothic  architecture.  The  fagade,  with  its  re- 
ceding portals,  wrought,  as  it  were,  into  a  fretwork 
of  figures ;  with  its  bas-reliefs,  its  pyramidal  groups, 
its  huge  rose  window,  its  majestic  gallery  of  kings, 
and,  above  all  this,  its  towers,  is  the  most  mag- 
nificent and  splendid  decorative  ensemble  of  the 


238  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

kind  that  exists.     The  proportions,  the  solidity, 
and  the  lightness  of  this  famous  portal  are  won- 
derful.    The  hollows  and  reliefs,  the  ornaments, 
the  open  work,  the  windows  and  open  lights  of 
the  towers  without  louvre-boards,  through  which 
you  see  the  scudding  clouds,  the  infinite  richness 
of  the  details — all  this  is  arranged  so  skilfully  and 
so  harmoniously   that,  while   contemplating   the 
huge  mass  with  awe,  one  feels  at  the  same  time 
ravished  with  admiration  and  attracted  more  and 
more  intimately  the  longer  one  contemplates  it,  so 
simple,  ndif^  and  human  is  the  whole  of  this  splen- 
did conception.     And  to  think  how  far  greater 
must  have  been  its  splendor  when  the  sculptures 
of  this  fagade  were  painted  and  gilded  as  they 
formerly  were  ! — for  we  moderns  only  see  Gothic 
architecture  in  its  glorious  decay,  robbed  of  its 
color,  except  where  that  color  has  been  perpetu- 
ated in  the  vitrified  brilliancy  of  a  rose  or  mari- 
gold window. 

The  fagade  of  the  cathedral  of  Reims  has  the 
advantage  of  being  not  only  the  most  splendid 
conception  of  the  thirteenth  century,  but  also  the 
only  one  in  existence.  That  of  Notre  Dame  at 
Paris  is  a  fagade  of  the  transition  epoch ;  that  of 
Amiens  is  incomplete  and  built  over  at  various 
epochs ;  Chartres  is  composed  of  fragments ; 
Bourges  and  Rouen  are  mixtures  of  the  styles  of 
three  or  four  centuries.  The  fagade  of  Reims 
alone  is  pure  thirteenth-century  Gothic ;  its  ico- 


REIMS.  239 

nography  is  complete  ;  its  innumerable  statues 
have  had  the  good-fortune  to  preserve  their  heads 
and  noses  in  spite  of  years  and  revolutions.  Its 
interest  is  inexhaustible :  it  dazzles  you,  charms 
you,  astonishes  you  ;  you  leave  it  to  examine  the 
other  parts  of  the  building,  and  you  return  again 
and  again  to  marvel  at  its  beauty  and  to  discover 
in  it  new  beauties. 

It  has  been  the  special  privilege  of  Notre  Dame 
of  Reims  to  see  all  the  kings  of  France  travel 
down  from  Paris  to  be  crowned  there  by  the 
Metropolitan  of  France.  It  was  through  this 
portal  that  Jeanne  d'Arc  passed  with  her  banner 
in  her  hand,  which  she  had  no  need  to  dip,  when 
she  came  to  ask  of  the  young  king  whom  she  had 
crowned  leave  to  return  and  tend  her  flocks.  Ah  ! 
the  parvis  of  Reims  has  seen  noble  company ! 
And  on  the  fagade,  one  might  say  that  universal 
history,  represented  by  its  most  renowned  heroes, 
had  taken  up  its  post  in  every  niche,  and  on  every 
cornice  and  vantage-point,  to  see  the  crowd  of 
the  faithful  enter  the  Church  of  Our  Lady.  In 
the  centre,  under  a  richly  crocketed  canopy,  the 
Virgin  is  being  crowned  by  her  Son,  The  months, 
the  great  saints,  the  four  rivers  of  Paradise,  the 
elements,  the  ancestors  of  humanity,  and  multi- 
tudes of  angels  and  seraphim,  clad  in  tunics  and 
copes  and  mantles,  form  the  cortege  of  honor  of 
the  Queen  of  Heaven.  Above  the  porches  are 
colossal  figures  representing  the  Crucifixion  and 


240  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

the  whole  history  of  the  Saviour,  the  saints  of  the 
old  law  and  of  the  new,  the  virtues  and  vices,  the 
decent  distractions  appropriate  to  each  season, 
the  story  of  the  Apocalypse,  the  story  of  Hell  and- 
of  Paradise,  the  history  of  David  and  of  Solomon, 
the  baptism  of  Clovis,  and  the  series  of  colos- 
sal kin2;s.  In  the  decoration  of  the  cathedral  of 
Reims  we  may  count  two  thousand  three  hundred 
and  three  sculptured  figures  of  human  beings  and 
of  animals.  What  description  can  give  an  idea  of 
the  impression  of  such  riches  ?  What  words  can 
convey  an  idea  of  the  unity  and  completeness  of 
the  whole  ? 

After  the  impression  of  grandeur  and  splendor, 
what  strikes  one  most  in  this  cathedral  of  Reims 
is  the  humor  and  human  interest  of  the  architec- 
tural ornament;  it  is  the  mixture  of  deformity 
and  grotesqueness  with  extreme  majesty  and  per- 
fect human  beauty;  the  ideally  lovely  figure  of 
Eve — one  of  the  finest  works  of  French  sculpture 
— and  in  contrast  the  colossal  eagles  with  human 
legs  that  share  the  guard  of  the  apsis  with  dogs, 
horses,  unicorns,  owls,  and  sirens.  Veritably  all 
creation,  both  the  creation  of  Nature  and  the 
creation  of  man's  brain,  has  been  called  into  the 
service  of  the  architects  of  Notre  Dame  of  Reims. 

The  interior  of  the  cathedral  is  full  of  beauty 
and  solemnity,  with  its  vaulted  roof,  one  hundred 
and  twenty-four  feet  above  the  pavement,  and  its 
total  length  of  four  hundred  and  sixty-six  feet.     In 


REIMS.  241 

the  inside,  as  on  the  outside,  the  regularity  and 
unity  are  striking.  The  length  is  divided  into 
nave,  transept,  and  apsis ;  the  breadth  into  the 
grand  nave  and  two  side  isles,  the  height  into 
three  stories,  separated  from  each  other  by  a 
prominent  moulding  accentuated  strongly  even  on 
the  slenderest  columns.  This  determination  of 
the  stories  is  a  marked  characteristic  of  the  archi- 
tecture of  Champagne.  It  is  to  be  found  in  all 
the  great  churches  of  the  country,  built  with  rem- 
iniscences of  the  Roman  monuments  so  numerous 
at  Reims,  in  which  the  stories  are  always  clearly 
marked.  But  with  all  its  beauty,  the  interior  does 
not  fascinate  us  like  the  outside.  After  walking 
around  and  around  the  basement,  one  climbs  the 
great  towers  and  wanders  in  astonishment  over  the 
roof  to  view  with  respectful  familiarity  the  great 
statues,  fifteen  and  twenty  feet  high,  that  look  so 
small  from  below.  One  marvels  at  the  immensity 
of  the  building,  at  the  excellence  of  the  workman- 
ship that  resists  centuries  and  centuries,  at  the 
miracles  of  carpentry  and  of  architectural  statics 
that  were  accomplished  by  the  maitres  es  ceuvrcs 
who  successively  worked  at  Notre  Dame.  And 
with  admiration  is  mingled  regret  to  think  that  we 
have  no  longer  the  faith,  the  means,  or  the  patience 
to  build  Gothic  cathedrals,  and  to  think  that  Gothic 
architecture  is  as  much  a  relic  of  the  past  as  the 
Pyramids  of  Egypt  or  the  Parthenon  of  Athens. 
Here,  at  Reims,  we  see  the  Roman  basilica,  en- 
16 


242  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

larged,  perfected,  and  having  attained  the  maxi- 
mum of  architectural  effect  simultaneously  with 
the  apogee  of  the  Gothic  style.  In  this  cathedral 
the  system  is  complete,  logical,  and  harmonious  in 
its  unity.  The  construction  harmonizes  with  the 
decoration,  the  sculpture  with  the  architecture, 
the  painted  glass  with  the  dimensions  of  the  win- 
dows :  the  form  and  the  matter  are  inseparable. 
But  the  spirit  of  it  has  escaped  us :  its  naively 
naturalist  character  is  no  longer  either  in  our 
thouo-hts  or  in  the  skill  of  our  handicraftsmen ; 
its  sculptural  decoration  cannot  be  imitated,  and 
without  its  sculpture  Gothic  architecture  is  but  a 
body  without  a  soul. 

On  the  way  back  from  Reims  the  lover  of  Gothic 
architecture  will  not  regret  a  visit  to  Notre  Dame 
de  I'Epine,  a  miniature  cathedral  situated  half  a 
dozen  miles  outside  the  old  town  of  Chalons-sur- 
Marne,  in  the  midst  of  a  little  \-illage  of  300  in- 
habitants. It  is  a  delightful  surprise  to  find  such 
a  beautiful  monument  in  such  wretched  surround- 
ings. The  two  open  spires  loaded  with  carvings, 
the  innumerable  pinnacles  and  crockets,  the  triple 
portal  enriched  with  fine  sculptures ;  the  elegant 
interior,  with  its  beautiful  capitals,  and,  above  all, 
\tsjube,  or  rood-loft ;  the  curious  variety  of  the  gar- 
p-ovles — are  all  worthv  of  studv,  and  the  plan  of  the 
church  as  a  whole  is  of  extreme  interest.  The  his- 
tor}'  of  the  church,  too,  is  curious,  and  of  all  the 
more  interest  to  us  as  the  architect  who  built  the 


REIMS.  243 

fagade  and  the  two  towers  was  an  Englishman 
named  Patrick,  who  agreed  to  accept  six  hundred 
livres  as  his  fee.  The  work  was  begun  in  141 9, 
the  stone  w-as  brought  all  the  way  from  Lorraine, 
and  the  church  rose  rapidly  from  the  ground.  In 
1429  Jeanne  d'Arc  and  Charles  VII.  drove  the 
English  out  of  Champagne,  and  Patrick,  the  archi- 
tect, took  advantage  of  the  troublous  times  to  run 
away  and  take  with  him  all  the  money  that  had 
been  subscribed  by  the  faithful  for  completing 
the  church.  However,  the  zeal  of  the  people  of 
Champagne  and  Lorraine  was  inexhaustible,  and 
so,  in  spite  of  the  disloyal  action  of  Patrick,  the 
church  was  finished  in  1443.  Such  is  the  account 
given  by  the  present  vicar  of  Notre  Dame  de 
I'Epine.  Will  not  some  learned  archaeologist  in- 
quire into  the  matter  and  attempt  to  clear  the 
character  of  Patrick  ?  The  church  which  Patrick 
designed  and  in  part  executed  is  so  beautiful 
that  one  is  unwilling  to  believe  the  artist  capable 
of  such  an  indelicate  action  as  that  of  running 
away  with  the  cash-box. 


AIX-LES-BAINS. 

At   the   end  of   the   sixteenth   century,  King 
Henri  IV.  of  France,  accompanied    by   several 
persons,  went  to  Aix  in  Savoy  and  bathed  for  one 
hour  in  the  warm  springs  without  taking  any  hurt, 
although  neither  his  majesty  nor  his  courtiers 
were  accustomed  to  washing  either  in  warm  or  in 
cold  water.     Still  earlier,  Julius  Caesar,  whom  the 
French  familiarly  call  Jules,  just  as  if  he  were  a 
simple  cafe'-waiter,  doubtless  much  troubled  by 
rheumatism  and  lumbago  due  to  exposure  and 
camp-life,  used  to  come  to  Aix  for  a  cure  almost 
every  year  during  the  period  of  his  military  ex- 
ploits against  the   Gauls,  Savoy  being  his  road 
home  to  his  Italian  winter-quarters.     The  remains 
of  the  Roman  baths  still  exist  and  serve  a  use- 
ful end,  no  longer  as  baths,  but  as  the  cellars 
where  the  Pension  Chabert  stores  its  wine,  and 
they  serve   this  purpose  well  enough,  although 
the  Barbarians  knocked  them  about  sadly  at  the 
time   of   their   first   invasion,  thereby  providing 
much  food  for  conjecture  and  controversy  to  the 
archaeologists  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Aix-les-Bains  is  a  pleasure  resort  and  a  water- 


AIX-LES-BAINS.  245 

ing- place,  and  interesting  from  both  points  of 
view,  but  more  especially  important  on  account 
of  the  recognized  efficacy  of  its  waters  in  the 
cure  or  relief  of  rheumatic  affections.  The  first 
suitable  bathing  establishment,  since  that  of  the 
Romans,  was  organized  in  1776,  but  the  great 
prosperity  of  the  town  dates  only  from  five  or 
six  years  ago,  when  the  annual  number  of  visit- 
ors reached  the  present  average  of  twenty -four 
thousand,  and  the  annual  receipts  of  the  Bath 
Establishment  the  present  average  of  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs.  Savoy,  it  is  needless  to 
say,  is  a  mountainous  tract  of  country  between 
Italy,  France,  and  Switzerland  ;  Aix-les-Bains  is 
situated  in  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  valleys 
of  Savoy,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  Lake  of 
Bourget.  It  is  a  country  of  rocks,  pine-trees, 
lakes  and  springs,  both  of  ordinary  water  and  of 
mineral  water.  Within  a  few  miles  of  Aix  are 
found  the  alkaline  waters  of  Saint  Simon ;  the 
sulphurous  waters  of  Challes  and  Marlioz,  and 
the  various  springs  of  Allevard,  Brides,  and  Uriage. 
As  for  the  waters  of  Aix,  considering  their  nat- 
ural temperature  varying  between  114°  and  117° 
Fahrenheit,  it  is  supposed  that  they  must  spring 
from  a  depth  of  about  three  thousand  feet,  and 
the  level  of  the  mouths  of  the  springs  is  about 
eight  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea. 
There  are  two  springs,  one  of  sulphur  and  one  of 
so-called  alum,  the  sulphurous  principle  in  both 


246  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS, 

being  sulhydric-acid  gas.     The  alum  spring  rises 
a  little  above  the  town  in  a  vast  grotto  pendent 
with  immense  stalactites.     Beyond  the  grotto  is 
a  reservoir,  and  a  gallery,  three  hundred  feet  long, 
which  conveys  the  water  to  the  Bath  Establish- 
ment.     The    sulphur    spring   rises   in  the  Bath 
Establishment  itself.     The  two  springs  together 
yield  in  the   course  of  twenty-four  hours  some 
four  million  litres  of  hot  water.     In  order  to  re- 
duce the  temperature  natural  cold  water  is  added 
to  the  amount  of  three  millions  of  litres,  and  so 
during  the  season  ihe  establishment  uses  seven 
millions  of  litres  of  water  a  day  and  treats  some 
two  thousand  patients.     The  establishment,  built 
on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  is  a  heavy  and  unlovely- 
looking  place,  having  three  flats  with  a  facade  on 
the  primitive  market-place,  in  the  middle  of  which 
is  an  old  Roman  Arch  and  a  fountain  with  three 
taps  which  pour  forth  night  and  day,  for  nothing, 
simple   water,  sulphur    water,  and    alum    water. 
This  market-place,  the  steps  of  the  establishment, 
and  the  entrance  hall  are  a  great  centre  of  move- 
ment in  Aix  from  half-past  four  in  the  morning 
until  eleven  o'clock  a.m.,  when  there  may  be  seen 
a  constant  succession  of  men  and  women  of  all 
ages  and  all  nations  dressed    in   the    strangest 
variety  of  undress  costumes  going  to  and  fro,  con- 
sulting the  doctors,  and  vanishing  into  the  cells 
that  line  the  long,  vaulted  corridors  of  the  Bath 
Establishment.     The  doctors  of  Aix  have  domi- 


AIX-LES-BAINS.  247 

ciles  and  consulting  hours,  but  until  noon  they 
are  never  to  be  found  at  home  ;  you  will  see  them 
loafins:  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Bath  Establish- 
ment,  waiting  for  their  patients,  catching  them  on 
the  wing,  consoling  them,  listening  to  the  same 
old  story  for  the  thousandth  time,  walking  a  little 
arm  in  arm,  and  otherwise  kindly  and  affection- 
ately entreating  them.  I  never  saw  doctors  paw 
their  patients  over  as  the  Aix  doctors  do.  Such 
appears  to  be  the  custom  of  the  country. 

Here  come  two  rustic  men  wearing  a  semblance 
of  uniform  and  carrying  a  sort  of  Sedan  chair,  one 
walkiniT  behind  and  one  in  front.  The  chair  is  of 
primitive  model  and  might  be  improved,  but  no- 
body seems  to  complain,  and  so  it  is  likely  to  re- 
main primitive.  Over  the  chair  is  a  sort  of  tent 
of  cotton  stuff,  striped  red  and  white.  The  cur- 
tains are  lightly  drawn,  and  you  see  emerging 
from  the  enveloping  drapery  nothing  but  a  bundle 
of  blankets  or  perhaps  a  pair  of  shoes.  Inside 
the  chair  is  a  patient  who  is  undergoing  the  water 
and  sweating  cure.  The  porters  have  carried  him 
thus  from  his  bedroom  in  the  hotel  or  pension 
where  he  is  staying,  and  they  are  now  taking  him 
to  one  of  the  cells  or  douches  of  the  Bath  Estab- 
lishment, where  he  is  placed  immediately  in  the 
hands  of  the  tormentors.  These  douches  are 
well  enough  arranged,  but,  like  everything  else  at 
Aix,  they  might  be  better  :  they  consist  of  a  dress- 
ing-room, from  which  you  step  down  two  steps 


248  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

into  the  douche,  where   the  tormentors,  clad  in 
shirts,  await  the  arrival  of  their  victims  amid  a 
mysterious  arrangement  of  pipes  and  hydrants. 
These  pipes  convey  simple  water  and  the  hot 
water  of  the  sulphur  and  the  alum  springs.     The 
victim  sits  on  a  low  wooden  chair  with  his  feet 
in  hot  water  four  or  five  inches  deep  on  the  floor, 
while  the  tormentors,  or  doucheurs,  propel  heavy 
jets  of  water  all  over  the  body  at  whatever  tem- 
perature the  doctor  may  indicate,  meanwhile  rub- 
bing, kneading,  and  shampooing  every  part  of  the 
body,  thus  stimulating  the  capillary  and  general 
circulation.     The  duration  of  this  operation  and 
the  strength  of  the  water  jets,  like  the  tempera- 
ture, can  all  be  regulated  according  to  the  doctor's 
orders.     The  Aix  doiuheurs  are  famous  for  their 
skill,  and,  in  order  to  impress  the  simple-minded, 
they    say   that  their  secrets  have  been  handed 
down  to  them  from  father  to  son  and  from  mother 
to  daughter  ever  since  the  Crusades,  at  which  pe- 
riod their  ancestors  learned  the  shampooing  meth- 
ods of  the  Orientals.    It  is  a  fact  that  the  oc- 
cupation of  the  male  and  female  doucheurs,  or 
shampooers,  is  hereditary,  and  monopolized  by 
certain  families  at  Aix,  but  what  secrets  they  can 
have    is  hard   to    see ;   they    have    doubtless   a 
sjteial  muscular  development,  great  patience  and 
endurance,  and  singular  delicacy  and  firmness  of 
touch.      Certainly  in  the  treatment  of  Aix  the 
waters  do  much,  but  there  is  reason  to  believe 


AIX-LES-BAINS.  249 

that  the  massage,  or  manipulation  and  kneading 
of  the  shampooers,  does  just  as  much  if  not  more. 
As  for  the  waters,  in  all  probability  the  good  they 
do  is  due  to  their  warmth  or  thermality  rather 
than  to  their  mineralization.  However,  when  the 
douche  is  over,  and  it  usually  lasts  ten  minutes 
or  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  patient  is  rapidly 
dried,  wrapped  in  flannel  sheets  and  blankets,  and 
carried  back  to  his  bedroom  in  the  same  primitive 
Sedan  or  invalid's  chair.  Having  reached  his 
apartment,  he  is  lifted  into  bed,  still  swathed  like  a 
mummy,  covered  up  with  blankets  and  sheets,  and 
left  to  perspire  for  a  longer  or  shorter  period. 
After  twenty  minutes  or  half  an  hour  he  may  be 
rubbed  down,  dressed,  and  allowed  to  live  like  an 
ordinary  mortal  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  This  post- 
balneal  bed  perspiration  is  not  necessary  in  all 
cases,  nor  is  the  carrying  in  the  Sedan  chair  ob- 
ligatory. 

Women  are  subjected  to  the  same  treatment  as 
men,  being  attended  to  by  female  shampooers. 
Besides  the  douche,  which  is  the  most  general  form 
of  the  Aix  treatment,  there  are  swimming-baths 
of  warm  sulphur  water  where  the  patients  are 
sent  for  a  forty-minutes'  soaking  in  water  at  a 
temperature  of  about  95^,  with  or  without  cold 
douches  at  intervals ;  there  are  also  simple  baths 
and  all  kinds  of  douche  arrangements  at  different 
degrees  of  temperature  and  mineralization ;  two 
large  inhaling- rooms,  where  the  patients  inhale 


250  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

sulphureous  vapor  in  various  ways ;  also  spray 
rooms,  where  pulverized  sulphureous  water  is 
brought  to  play  upon  any  part  of  the  body,  es- 
pecially useful  in  throat  and  nose  diseases  and 
wherever  there  is  relaxation  of  the  mucous  mem- 
brane. 

Now  we  come  to  Aix-les-Bains  considered  sim- 
ply as  a  health  resort  and  pleasure  place.  As 
regards  scenery  it  is  delightful ;  the  lake  of  Bour- 
get  alone  is  full  of  charm,  and  there  are  dozens 
of  most  interesting  excursions  to  be  made  in  the 
neighboring  country  with  Lamartine's  "  Raphael  " 
as  a  guide  -  book.  In  this  romance  Lamartine 
makes  Raphael  select  Aix  as  a  residence  because 
it  combines  the  charm  of  the  beautiful  valley  and 
fertile  plain  with  the  majesty  of  Alpine  scenery. 
The  district  around  Aix  between  Chambery  and 
Annecy,  which  is  all  within  easy  reach  by  rail  or 
by  road,  does  not  exceed  sixty  miles,  but  these 
sixty  miles  are  full  of  natural  beauty  and  of  ob- 
jects of  interest,  and  certainly  the  two  lakes  of 
Bourget  and  Annecy  are  not  inferior  in  beauty  to 
the  famous  Italian  lakes  of  Como  and  Maggoire. 
Lamartine,  with  his  charming  poem  of  "  The  Lake," 
is  identiiied  with  the  lake  of  Bourget ;  at  Cham- 
bery one  thinks  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  whose 
enthusiastic  description  of  the  lake  of  Annecy 
has  induced  many  to  follow  his  example  and 
build  villas  on  its  shores.  Les  Charmettes,  half 
an  hour's  drive  from  Chambery,  will  of  course  be 


AIX-LES-BAINS. 


visited  by  all  who  remember  the  wonderful  story 
of  Jean  Jacques  and  Madame  de  Warens  related 
in  his  "  Confessions." 

As  for  the  town  of  Aix,  the  best  thing  that 
could  be  done  with  it  would  be  to  transport  it 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  down  the  valley,  plant  it 
on  the  borders  of  the  lovely  lake  of  Bourget,  and 
connect  it  by  a  tramway  with  the  Bath  Establish- 
ment. This  radical  change  will,  of  course,  not  be 
made  until  some  enterprising  American  comes 
along,  likes  the  place,  and  buys  it.  For  the  pres- 
ent we  must  be  content  with  Aix  as  it  is,  a  decent, 
clean,  and  fairly  civilized  town,  where  you  may 
see  at  the  same  time  in  the  semi-modern  and 
semi-rustic  streets  a  peasant's  wagon  drawn  by  a 
yoke  of  patient  oxen  and  a  duchess's  victoria 
drawn  by  a  rattling  team  of  Orloffs.  In  the 
months  of  May  and  September  Aix  is  an  Anglo- 
American  colony ;  in  the  months  of  July  and 
August  a  meeting-place  of  French,  Italian,  and 
cosmopolitan  pleasure-seekers  of  all  categories — 
Russian  princesses,  numbers  of  Italian  and  French 
aristocrats,  diplomatists  and  statesmen,  cele- 
brated actresses,  gouty  journalists,  and  a  swarm 
of  gamblers  and  cocottes  who  augment  the  appar- 
ent splendor  of  the  daily  spectacle  and  enable 
the  simple  visitor  to  enjoy  many  luxuries  which 
such  a  modest  town  as  Aix  could  never  afford 
were  it  not  for  that  immoral  but  very  productive 
institution  la  Cagnotte.     There  are  two  rival  casi- 


252  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

nos  here,  each  situated  in  a  small  park,  each  hav- 
ing a  theatre,  a  restaurant,  club-rooms,  and  gam- 
insr  saloons.  Each  casino  has  an  orchestra  of 
sixty  musicians,  a  theatrical  or  operatic  company, 
and  a  numerous  personnel  of  flunkeys  in  plush 
breeches  and  gorgeous  livery.  In  short,  both 
the  casinos  of  Aix  are  very  brilliant  and  commo- 
dious establishments,  and  during  the  season  from 
May  to  October  each  one  spends  some  $80,000 
in  keeping  up  appearances  and  amusing  the  pub- 
lic. The  subscription  to  each  casino  is  %%  for  the 
whole  season,  but  it  is  not  the  subscriptions  that 
bring  in  the  money,  nor  the  restaurant,  nor  the 
cafe,  but  the  baccarat-tables  and  the  ecarte-tables. 
In  the  course  of  an  average  year  the  cagnotte,  or 
in  other  words  the  proceeds  of  the  tax  levied  by 
the  administration  of  the  casino  on  every  bank 
at  baccarat  and  every  game  of  ecarte,  brings  in 
about  $160,000  to  each  establishment.  At  Monte 
Carlo  you  see  pious  Britishers,  who  throw  up 
their  hands  in  holy  horror  at  the  mere  thought  of 
gaming,  but  who  are  still  calmly  enjoying  the 
magnificent  gardens  and  delightful  music  which  a 
generous  administration  offers  gratis  to  the  pub- 
lic at  the  expense  of  the  gamblers  who  are  losing 
their  money  at  the  roulette  -  tables.  So  too  at 
Aix-les-Bains,  the  splendor  of  the  casinos,  the 
music,  the  theatre,  the  flunkeys,  and  the  beautiful 
gardens,  are  all  paid  for  by  those  wicked  men  and 
gay  women  who  crowd  round  the  baccarat-tables, 


AIX-LES-BAINS.  253 

especially  around  the  five  tables  of  the  Villa  des 
Fleurs. 

The  reader  will  perhaps  wonder  how  it  is  that 
public  gaming  is  allowed  in  this  way.  The  an- 
swer is  this :  baccarat  and  ecarte  are  considered 
to  be  commercial  games  in  contradistinction  to 
games  of  pure  chance  in  which  the  will  or  intelli- 
gence of  the  player  cannot  modify  matters.  Com- 
mercial games  are  allowed  in  clubs  ;  part  of  each 
casino  is  considered  to  be  a  club,  the  entry  to 
which  is  reserved ;  that  is  to  say  you  have  to  go 
through  the  formality  of  asking  for  an  admission 
card  which  is  granted  to  men  and  women  alike. 
At  these  baccarat-tables  play  begins  of  an  after- 
noon about  four  o'clock,  and  may  continue  until 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning  if  there  are  players. 
At  any  rate,  these  two  casinos  in  this  peaceful 
valley  of  Aix  remain  open  every  morning  until 
two  o'clock,  and  around  the  green  baize  tables  in 
the  brilliantly  decorated  gaming-rooms  you  see  a 
queer  crowd  of  simpletons,  adventurers,  high-liv- 
ers, honest  women  and  dishonest  women,  all 
watching  the  game,  and  betting  some  one  dollar 
and  some  a  thousand  dollars  on  the  turn  of  a  card, 
while  the  croupier  repeats  monotonously,  " Faites 
vosjeux!    Les  jeux  sont  faits  !    Ricn  ne  va  plus  f 

This  mixture  of  fast  life,  of  invalid  life,  and  of 
the  peaceful  loafing  and  gazing  existence  of  mere 
health-seeking  idlers  makes  Aix-les-Bains  a  very 
amusing  place  wherein  to   spend  three   weeks. 


-^54 


SUMMER   HOLIDAYS, 


Nature,  the  Alps,  the  pine-clad  hills,  green  lakes, 
blue  skv,  and  moving  clouds  offer  delightful 
spectacles  to  the  eye ;  but  nature  without  man  in 
the  picture  is  perhaps  less  conducive  to  health, 
rest,  and  distraction  than  nature  which  serves  as 
a  frame  for  an  ever-changing  picture  of  humanity 
vrith  the  merest  tang  of  polished  and  highly  civil- 
ized rascalitj. 


A    VISIT  TO   THE    GRANDE 
CHAR  IRE  USE. 

A  THIRTY-MILE  drive  through  some  of  the  finest 
mountain  scenery  in  Savoy  and  Dauphine  brings 
one  from  Aix-les-Bains  to  the  gate  of  the  monas- 
tery of  the  Grande  Chartreuse,  also  known  as  the 
Chartreuse  of  Grenoble,  which  is  perhaps  more 
universally  famous  for  the  excellence  of  the  liqueur 
which  bears  its  name  than  for  the  exemplary 
piety  of  its  monks.  Before  visiting  the  monas- 
tery I  figured  to  myself  the  worthy  recluses,  in 
the  intervals  of  prayer,  all  busy  in  the  fabrica- 
tion of  their  liqueur.  I  imagined  some  scattered 
over  the  mountain-side  gathering  herbs  and  sim- 
ples, while  others,  in  picturesque  laboratories  full 
of  quaint  alembics  and  queer  retorts,  were  en- 
gaged in  the  processes  of  distilling,  mixing,  clari- 
fying, bottling,  and  gumming  on  the  well-known 
labels  with  the  autograph  of  Dom  Gamier.  This 
vision  was  a  delusion. 

The  Grande  Chartreuse  is  built  in  a  lofty 
mountain  solitude,  the  approach  to  which  is 
through  the  village  of  Saint  Laurent -du- Pont, 
which  is  traversed  by  a  rapid  stream,  the  Guiers. 


256  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

Following  this  water- course  we  come  to  Four- 
voirie,  a  village  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  mass  of 
mountains  whose  precipitous  pine -clad  flanks 
are  lost  in  the  sky.  Here  the  stream  proves 
to  be  a  mountain  torrent,  but  it  has  been  dis- 
ciplined to  turn  saw-mills  and  cement-mills.  On 
one  side  of  the  torrent  is  the  manufactory  where 
the  Chartreuse  liqueur  is  made  ;  on  the  other  is 
a  dismantled  iron-foundery  which  the  Carthusian 
monks  established  in  1650  and  carried  on  until  a 
year  ago,  their  predecessors  having  been  the  first 
metallurgists  in  Dauphine,  and  Chartreuse  iron 
having  been  famous  in  the  Lyons  market  as  early 
as  the  thirteenth  century.  Just  beyond  these 
mills  we  enter  the  so-called  Desert,  or  sacred  pre- 
cincts of  the  monastery,  -whose  limits  the  monks 
never  pass  when  once  they  have  taken  their  vows. 
The  road  still  follows  the  torrent,  which  sinks 
deeper  and  deeper  into  a  rocky  gorge,  while  the 
narrow  path  winds  higher  and  higher  along  the 
mountain-side,  now  under  beetling  gray  rocks,  now 
through  overhanging  sombre  pine  forests  enliven- 
ed only  by  a  silvery  cascade  that  gurgles  forth 
from  the  rock  and  leaps  from  ledge  to  ledge,  as 
it  hastens  to  swell  the  roaring  torrent  dimly  seen 
far  below  through  interstices  in  the  thick  foliage. 
This  grand,  silent,  and  solemn  scenery  seems  the 
natural  and  appropriate  road  to  the  "  terrible 
solitude  "  where  Saint  Bruno  went  to  establish 
himself  with  his  austere  companions  in  the  year 


A    VISIT   TO  THE   GRANDE    CHARTREUSE.     257 

of  grace  1084.  For  an  hour  and  a  half  we  mount 
on  foot,  up  and  up,  along  this  mountain  road,  now 
crossing  some  aerial  fairy  bridge,  now  peering 
through  a  tunnel  bored  through  the  mountain, 
now  creeping  along  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  until 
at  last  we  issue  from  the  dark  pine  woods  and 
damp  rocks  and  enter  a  valley  literally  ablaze 
with  a  thousand  varieties  of  field  flowers.  Be- 
hind us,  before  us,  all  around,  the  mountains 
tower  up ;  we  seem  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  a  vast 
natural  basin  ;  and  in  this  basin  on  the  farther 
slope  we  see  the  spires  and  steep  roofs  of  the 
monastery,  an  austere,  unadorned,  and  solid  mass 
of  white  walls  and  black  slate  roofs,  planted  im- 
posingly against  a  background  of  grisly  rocks 
and  sombre  pine  woods.  What  solitude  !  What 
isolation !  What  silence  !  And  at  once  the 
thought  comes,  what  a  terrible  place  in  winter 
time  !  We  are  here  at  an  altitude  of  3000  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  nine  months  out 
of  the  tweh'e  the  snow  caps  all  these  surrounding 
heights  which  shut  the  sun  out  of  the  basin  dur- 
ing half  the  day  in  summer  and  all  day  in  winter. 
The  name  of  Desert  given  to  this  solitude  is  sig- 
nificant indeed,  in  spite  of  the  richness  of  the 
vegetation,  which  has  nevertheless  a  funereal  hue, 
suggestive  of  darkness  and  mourning,  but  it  must 
have  been  still  more  significant  when  Hugh, 
bishop  of  Grenoble,  first  led  Bruno  to  the  spot 
whose  then  obscure  name  Chartreuse  was   des- 

17 


2c8  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

tined  to  become  famous  all  over  Europe.  The 
mediaeval  writers  have  exhausted  the  resources  of 
lano-ua^-e  in  describing  the  awful  and  terrible 
nature  and  aspect  of  the  spot,  shut  in  among 
naked  and  precipitous  rocks,  surrounded  by  sterile 
mountains,  and  for  a  large  portion  of  the  year 
buried  in  snow.  Since  then  the  administration 
of  woods  and  forests  has  helped  to  modify  the 
severity  and  sterility  of  these  mountains  by  plan- 
tation, and  now  the  aspect  of  the  place  is  solemn, 
romantic,  and  picturesque  rather  than  terrible. 

Why  did  Saint  Bruno  choose  such  a  solitude,  and 
why  was  his  order  so  successful  that  at  one  time 
it  possessed  172  monasteries,  while  even  in  these 
deo-enerate    days   there  remain  fourteen  Carthu- 
sian monasteries  in  France  and  nine  elsewhere  ? 
The  date  of  the  foundation,  it  will  be   noticed, 
is  1084,  just  after  men  were  beginning  to  recover 
from  the   alarm    caused  by  the  belief  that  the 
world  would  come  to  an  end  in  the  1 000th  year 
after  the  coming  of  Christ.     Bruno  was  evidently 
an  enthusiast   and  a  reformer.     Warned  by  the 
negligence    and    lukewarmness  of   many  of   the 
older  monks,  he  adopted  for  himself  and  his  fol- 
lowers greater  precautions  against  the  artifices  of 
the  Evil  One,  namely,  a  coarse  costume,  the  sub- 
stitution of  a  hair  shirt  for  linen,  most  abstemious 
diet,  and  limitation  of  their  worldly  goods  to  a 
just  sufficiency.     Nowadays  the  great  source  of 
revenue  of  the  Carthusian  order  is  the  manufact- 


A   VISIT   TO    THE   GRANDE    CHARTREUSE.     259 

ure  of  the  Chartreuse  liqueur,  which  produces  a 
profit  of  $100,000  a  year.  The  monks  might 
just  as  well  make  double  the  quantity  of  liqueur 
and  double  their  profits,  but  they  refuse  to  go  be- 
yond the  limit  of  the  needs  of  their  order  and  of 
their  charity,  or  to  extend  the  field  of  their  com- 
merce in  any  way. 

The  entrance  to  the  convent  is  of  the  simplest. 
Over  the  green-painted  door  is  an  image  of  the 
Virgin,  and  on  each  side  images  of  Saint  Bruno 
and  Saint  Hugh.  To  the  right  is  a  wing  where 
the  servants  of  the  monastery  are  lodged,  and  to 
the  left  rooms  for  the  reception  of  indigent  trav- 
ellers. We  ring  timidly,  still  deeply  impressed  by 
the  tranquil  and  sombre  solitude  of  this  mountain 
refuge  ;  the  door  is  opened  by  a  lay  brother  clad 
in  white  woollen  robes  ;  it  is  the  janitor,  the  cher 
frere portier  as  he  is  called.  Dear  brother  porter 
smiles  upon  us,  invites  us  in,  and  commissions  a 
rustic  serving-man  to  conduct  us  across  the  court- 
yard to  the  Hotellerie.  The  serving-man,  clad  in 
a  blue  blouse,  heavy  boots,  a  broad-brimmed  hat, 
looking  like  a  plough-boy,  also  smiles  upon  us 
and  begins  to  talk  with  great  volubility  about  that 
most  useful  and  most  common  of  introductory 
topics  of  conversation,  the  weather.  The  court- 
yard is  neatly  laid  out  in  geometrical  grass-plots 
and  adorned  with  two  plashing  fountains,  is  closed 
in  on  one  side  by  a  vast  edifice  accompanied  by 
four  pavilions  in  the  Louis  XIII.  style,  with  very 


26o  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

Steep  roofs  destined  to  throw  ot^'  the  snow.  The 
monastery,  it  may  be  remarked,  has  been  burned 
down  eight  times  since  its  foundation,  and  most 
of  the  present  buildings  date  only  from  i6SS. 
These  pavilions  served  formerly  as  lodgings  for 
the  priors  who  came  once  a  year  from  the  diiYer- 
ent  provinces  of  the  order  to  attend  the  General 
Chapter.  Entering  a  vaulted  corridor  and  turning 
to  the  left  we  were  shown  into  a  long  refectory, 
where  another  smiling  lay  brother,  \\\Q/rire  hospi- 
talur,  received  us,  asked  for  our  cards,  and  as- 
signed us  rooms,  at  the  same  time  telling  us  that 
dinner  would  be  on  tlie  table  at  six  o'clock.  Our 
rooms  were  in  the  section  marked  "  Camerae  Pro- 
vinciarum  Provinciae  et  Aquitaniae  "  —  clean, 
whitewashed,  curtainless,  and  carpetless  rooms, 
furnished  with  a  bed.  a  chair,  a  prk-Diai,  a 
night-table,  a  table  with  a  quart  mug  of  water  and 
a  soup-bowl  for  washing  purposes,  a  match-box,  a 
crucifix,  a  lithograph  of  the  Virgin,  and  no  look- 
ing-glass. For  the  use  of  this  room  we  paid  one 
franc.  The  dinner  was  served  in  the  '*  Aula  pro- 
vinciarum  Franciae  "  and  consisted  of  potato  soup, 
fried  carp,  an  omelette,  cheese,  fruit,  red  wine  in 
abundance,  and  after  dinner  a  glass  of  Chartreuse, 
the  whole  neatly  served,  with  table-cloth,  napkins, 
and  other  accessories  of  civilization,  for  the  sum 
of  2^  francs.  If  one  were  "  hard  up  "  one  might 
think  of  boarding  at  this  hospitable  table  for  a 
few  months ;  there  are,  however,  two  objections  : 


A   VISIT   TO    THE   GRANDE   CHARTREUSE.     26 1 

the  Carthusians  allow  no  meat  to  be  eaten  in  their 
monastery,  and  they  give  notice  that  they  cannot 
lodge  travellers  for  more  than  forty-eight  hours, 
owing  to  the  large  numbers  of  people  who  demand 
hospitality,  amounting,  we  were  told,  to  some  7000 
or  8000  ever)'  year.  In  the  i8th  centur}',  it  ap- 
pears, before  tourists  had  been  invented,  there 
were  6000  visitors  a  year  at  the  Grande  Char- 
treuse, and  in  the  12th  century  the  documents  of 
the  house  already  speak  of  the  great  affluence 
of  travellers,  y>'^^//^«/'/^  hospitu77i.  The  fact  that 
things  have  been  going  on  in  the  monastery  just 
as  they  now  go  on  during  six,  seven,  or  eight  hun- 
dred years  is  one  that  constantly  strikes  the  visit- 
or to  the  Grande  Chartreuse.  For  centuries  and 
centuries  travellers  have  received,  according  to 
the  statutes  of  the  house,  a  dinner  of  soup,  two 
courses,  cheese  and  fruit,  "  with  which  they  must 
be  content."  After  dinner  they  have  saluted 
"dear  brother  porter,"  as  we  saluted  him,  and,  beg- 
ging him  to  open  that  they  might  go  for  a  walk, 
they  have  inspected  curiously  the  monastic  build- 
ings enclosed  in  their  surrounding  wall,  running 
up  the  hill-side  with  here  and  there  a  watch-tower, 
reminding  one  of  the  days  of  ancient  warfare  and 
medieval  ballistics ;  they  have  contemplated  the 
marvellous  curv^e  of  the  mountains  that  close  in 
the  amphitheatre  facing  the  entrance  ;  they  have 
wondered  at  the  pure  light  of  the  silvery  moon 
entlironed  in   the  cloudless,  tranquil  sky;  they 


262  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

have  watched  the  evening  star  sink  below  the 
jagged  horizon  line  of  the  blue-black  hills,  and 
listened  in  the  crepuscular  stillness  to  the  distant 
clano-ing  of  the  cow-bells  as  the  mountain  cat- 
tle wandered  home  from  their  highland  pastures 
bringing  to  the  cloistered  fathers  their  offering  of 
foaming  milk. 

Quite  as  impressive  and  soul-stirring  was  the 
celebration  of  matins,  at  which  we  strangers  were 
allowed  to  assist  in  a  gallery  in  the  chapel.     We 
had  gone  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  when  the  gates 
of  the  monastery  were  closed  for  the  night,  and  at 
eleven  a  good  lay  brother  waked  us  up  to  go  to 
chapel.    Passing  along  a  dimly  lighted  vaulted  cor- 
ridor, we  heard  a  bell  tolling,  and  mounting  a  few 
steps  we  found  ourselves  in  a  gallery  at  the  end  of 
the  chapel.    All  was  dark  ;  the  only  lights  were  the 
candles  burning  in  front  of  the  altar  and  two  sus- 
pended, feeble  lamps.     In  the  obscurity  the  form 
and  plan  of  the  church  were  barely  distinguish- 
able.    Suddenly,  as  the  bell  tolled  faster,  there 
was  heard  the  rustling  of  feet,  and  some  fifty 
phantom  forms,  some  in  white  robes,  others  wear- 
ing black  mantles  over  their  white  robes,  glided 
in,  each  carrying  a  little  lantern,  and  took  their 
seats  in  stalls   along   the   sides   of  the  chapel. 
Those  clad  in  white  were  the  fathers ;  the  wear- 
ers of  black  cloaks  were  the  novices.     The  bell 
ceased  to  toll ;  a  few  moments  passed  in  silent 
prayer,  and  then  the  phantom  forms  began  to 


A   VISIT  TO   THE   GRANDE   CHARTREUSE.     263 

chant  psalms  and  liturgical  exercises,  prostrating 
themselves  absolutely  from  time  to  time,  so  that 
they  seemed  to  sink  into  the  floor  and  vanish 
from  sight.  The  Carthusians  have  preserved 
their  liturgy  unchanged  since  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury; they  chant  monotonously  in  simple  notes 
of  equal  value,  without  fiorituri  or  ornaments — a 
chant  so  simple  that  it  takes  no  time  to  learn  to 
execute  it.  As  the  ancient  statutes  of  the  order 
say  :  "  The  occupation  of  the  true  monk  being  to 
weep  rather  than  to  sing,  let  us  make  use  of  our 
voice  in  such  a  manner  that  it  will  procure  our 
souls  that  intimate  joy  which  comes  from  tears> 
rather  than  those  emotions  which  are  the  result 
of  the  chords  of  harmonious  music."  And  so 
the  Carthusians  intone  their  liturgy  most  simply, 
in  accordance  with  the  severity  and  austerity  of 
their  order.  And  during  matins  the  church  is 
the  greater  part  of  the  time  in  complete  obscur- 
ity, for,  except  when  they  need  the  light  to  read, 
the  monks  pray  and  chant  in  the  dark,  and  hide 
their  lanterns  in  queer,  tall  sheaths,  which  also 
serve  as  reflectors  to  concentrate  the  light  on  the 
antiphonaries.  No  words  can  convey  an  idea  of 
the  impressiveness  of  this  spectacle  of  the  Car- 
thusian monks  in  their  white  robes,  kneeling  in 
their  stalls  like  the  marble  statues  that  pray  on 
mediaeval  tombs.  In  the  pious  concert  the  visi- 
tor, perched  in  his  dark  gallery,  distinguishes  the 
strong,  vibrating  voice  of  the  robust  man  who  is 


264  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

yet  mounting  the  hill  of  life,  and  the  weak  and 
faltering  voice  of  him  who  is  descending  the  hill 
towards  death.  In  winter,  in  summer,  above  the 
noise  of  the  torrent,  above  the  sound  of  the  tem- 
pest, the  prayers  of  the  Carthusian  rise  heaven- 
wards. And  as  one  recognizes  in  the  holy  words 
the  explanation  of  all  human  woes  ;  as  one  hears 
these  lonely  monks,  forgotten  by  the  world  and 
yet  remembering  the  world  in  their  prayers,  one's 
thoughts  return  to  the  past,  and  to  the  great 
psalmist,  who,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  at  the 
hour  when  the  wicked  man  is  plotting  crime,  when 
the  guilty  feel  remorse,  when  the  poor  and  friend- 
less suffer,  lifted  up  his  voice  and  prayed  for  the 
wicked,  for  the  guilt}-,  for  the  poor  and  for  the  friend- 
less ;  prayed  for  the  dead  and  for  those  that  are 
about  to  die ;  prayed  for  the  unhappy  that  they 
might  hope,  and  for  the  happy  lest  they  should 
forget.  And  this  prayer  of  the  Carthusians  has 
been  offered  up,  night  after  night  and  centur\' 
after  centurv,  for  more  than  eight  hundred  vears. 
In  vain  death  strikes  ;  it  cannot  empt}-  those  stalls 
where  the  same  pious  spirits  seem  to  be  lodged 
forever  in  the  same  statuesque  bodies.  Revolu- 
tions have  come  and  overturned  thrones  and  de- 
stroyed empires,  but  not  one  atom  has  been 
changed  in  the  thoughts  of  these  devout  souls, 
not  one  word  in  their  hymns,  not  one  fold  in  their 
shroud-like  robes.  And  after  us  others  will  come 
and  find  what  we  found,  and  meditate  upon  this 


A   VISIT   TO    THE   GRANDE   CHARTREUSE.      265 

grand  and  pious  spectacle,  nor  man-el  that  many 
a  belated  traveller,  whom  chance  or  curiosit}'  has 
led  to  assist  at  this  midnight  adoration  of  the 
Eternal,  has  felt  in  his  soul  the  desire  to  embrace 
the  life  of  the  Carthusians,  and  endeavor  to  vie 
with  them  in  piety  and  abnegation. 

We  entered  the  church  at  eleven  o'clock,  and 
it  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  the  monks  marched 
out  with  their  lanterns,  and  we  returned  to  bed  to 
think  over  v/hat  we  had  seen.  The  next  morning 
we  w-ere  up  betimes,  and,  guided  by  a  lay  brother, 
we  visited  the  vast  monaster}-  and  inspected  its 
chapels,  its  library,  its  refectory,  and,  with  much 
curiosity,  one  of  the  cells  where  the  monks  live, 
also  the  modest  cemetery  where  they  are  buried. 
In  one  half  of  the  cemetery  repose  the  sixty-five 
Generals  who  have  presided  over  the  order,  be- 
ginning with  Saint  Bruno,  v/ho  died  in  iioi. 
These  graves  are  marked  by  stone  crosses.  In 
the  other  half  lie  the  simple  monks,  whose  graves 
are  marked  by  simple  wooden  crosses.  It  is  curi- 
ous to  note  the  epitaphs  of  the  deceased,  who  all 
seem  to  have  lived  to  an  advanced  age,  So,  90, 
and  even  100  years,  which  shows  that  an  austere 
and  abstemious  life  is  not  destructive  of  health. 
Architecturally  the  Grande  Chartreuse  is  of  small 
interest,  and  the  reason  is  to  be  sought  in  the 
rule  of  the  Carthusian  Order.  The  idea  of  the 
Carthusian  monk  is  to  realize,  as  well  as  possible, 
on  earth  the  kind  of  life  which  he  hopes  to  lead 


266  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

in  heaven,  and  that  Hfe,  he  imagines,  will  consist 
in  three  acts,  seeing  God,  loving  God,  and  prais- 
ing: God.     This  ideal  he  endeavors  to  attain  on 
earth  by  the  study  of  mystic  theology,  by  medita- 
tion, and  by  prayer  and  liturgical  exercises.    His 
desire  is  to  quit  the  world  and  to  concentrate  his 
thoughts  uninterruptedly  on   God.      Hence  the 
Carthusian  monasteries  are  generally  established 
in  Deserts  in  the  midst  of  mountains,  far  from 
human  habitations,  and  the  internal  arrangement 
is  such  as  to  promote  solitude.     Contrary  to  the 
general  idea,  while  the  Carthusian  lay  brothers 
have  worked  in  the  fields  and  at  various  industries, 
the  cloistered  fathers  have  always  worked  in  soli- 
tude, in  the  old  days  at  the  noble  task  of  copying 
manuscript,  and,  since  the  invention  of  printing, 
at  intellectual  or  merely  hygienic    occupations, 
though    the   Carthusians  have  never  been  very 
famous  for  their  erudition  or  for  their  writings. 
As  they  work  alone,  so  also  the  fathers  eat  alone 
in  their  cells,  except  on  Sundays  and  fete  days, 
when  they  eat  in  common  in  the  refectory,  but 
without   ever  talking ;   during  the  meal  one  of 
them  chants  a  chapter  from  the  Bible  in  Latin. 
The  Carthusian  day  is  divided  into  three  parts, 
and  the  night  into  three  watches,  of  which  the 
first  and  the  last  are  devoted  to  rest,  and  the  sec- 
ond to  prayer  and  intonation  of  the  psalms.    This 
second  watch,  or  matins,  is  one  of  the  severest 
trials  of  the  order,  and  a  good  brother  told  us 


A   VISIT   TO   THE   GRANDE   CHARTREUSE.      267 

that  it  drove  away  many  novices,  who  could  not 
endure  the  physical  strain  of  being  torn  from 
their  first  sleep  every  night  in  the  year  to  go  to 
the  cold  chapel  and  chant  in  the  darkness  two  or 
three  hours  at  a  stretch.  Old  men  may  endure 
it,  perhaps,  but  generally  the  Carthusians  enter 
the  order  young,  say  at  20  or  25,  and  the  trial  is 
a  hard  one.  Among  the  novices  who  are  under- 
going this  trial  at  present,  we  were  told  by  the 
good  brother,  are  a  young  American,  two  Rus- 
sians, an  Englishman,  and  a  German,  for  at  the 
Grande  Chartreuse  all  nations  are  accepted,  if 
their  faith  is  sufficiently  strong  and  their  piety 
ardent  and  sure.  But  to  return  to  the  Carthusian 
day:  from  6  to  10  a.m.  the  monk's  time  is  taken 
up  with  spiritual  exercise  and  prayer;  10  to  2, 
prayer,  meals,  and  manual  work  necessary  for 
health  (sawing  wood  or  planing  boards  seem  to 
be  the  favorite  exercises) ;  3  to  4^,  vespers ;  4^ 
to  5^,  meals  and  prayer;  then  sleep,  and  live 
hours  later  sounds  the  first  matins  bell.  Thus 
the  Carthusian  quits  his  cell  only  three  times  a 
day — for  matins,  for  high  mass  in  the  morning, 
and  for  vespers  in  the  afternoon.  The  rest  of 
the  time  he  is  alone,  and  his  occupations  are 
pious  exercises,  and  manual  and  intellectual  work. 
Perpetual  silence  is  not  the  rule  of  the  Carthu- 
sians, and  on  certain  occasions  they  talk  to- 
gether, and  once  a  week  they  go  and  walk  in  the 
woods  for  three  hours.     In  order  to  increase  the 


268  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

austerity  of  the  Carthusian's  life,  there  are  fasts 
and  long  periods  of  abstinence,  and  always  com- 
plete abstinence  from  flesh  and  animal  food  of 
all  kinds.  The  Carthusians  are  the  only  Chris- 
tian order  of  monks  who  practise  this  kind  of 
abstinence,  which  is  the  distinctive  mark  of  the 
community  and  the  strictest  of  their  laws.  As 
for  the  costume  of  the  Carthusians,  that,  too,  is  a 
relic  of  the  past ;  it  is  a  long  tunic  of  Avhite  wool- 
len stuff,  a  scapulary  of  the  same  stuff  cut  up  the 
sides  so  as  to  leave  the  arms  free,  and  attached 
to  the  scapulary  a  pointed  hood ;  in  other  words, 
it  is  a  slight  modification  of  the  costume  worn  by 
the  Dauphine  mountaineers  in  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury, and  I  have  seen  even  lately  in  the  Savoy 
mountains  peasants  clad  with  woollen  stuff  of  the 
same  make. 

The  cells  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse  are  isolated 
like  those  of  the  old  Egj^ptian  monks,  and  all  of 
the  same  model :  they  are  sixty  in  number,  and 
they  are  built  around  the  cloisters,  and  especially 
along  the  grand  cloister,  which  is  six  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  long,  the  vastest  cloister  in  France,  and 
of  very  beautiful  Gothic  architecture.  Over  the 
entrance  to  each  cell  is  a  letter  of  the  alphabet 
and  a  text  of  Scripture  ;  at  the  side  of  the  door  is 
a  little  wicket  through  which  the  food  is  passed 
in  on  a  sliding  tray;  and  the  cell  itself  is  com- 
posed of  two  flats.  On  the  ground  flat  is  a  vesti- 
bule, a  wood  room,  and  a  work-room  provided 


A   VISIT   TO  THE   GRANDE    CHARTREUSE.      269 

with  a  carpenter's  bench.  On  the  other  floor  is 
a  bedroom,  oratory,  and  study,  the  whole  very 
small,  simple,  and  austere,  and  decorated  with 
religious  images  and  prints  of  the  most  inartistic 
description.  It  is  a  strange  fact,  which  has  been 
remarked,  I  believe,  by  John  Ruskin,  that  no 
Christian  whose  heart  is  thoroughly  set  upon  the 
world  to  come,  and  who  is,  so  far  as  human  judg- 
ment can  pronounce,  perfect  and  right  before 
God,  ever  cared  about  art  at  all.  Certainly  the 
Carthusians  do  not  love  it,  for  nothing  more  out- 
rageously inartistic  could  be  imagined  than  the 
cheap  lithographs  and  paltry  religious  emblems 
and  prints  which  they  have  ever  before  their  eyes 
in  their  cells.  How  different  are  these  abomina- 
tions from  the  lovely  miniatures  with  which  the 
old  Carthusians  used  to  adorn  the  manuscripts 
and  antiphonaries  which  they  copied  before  Gut- 
enburg  saw  the  light !  Thus  it  will  be  seen,  the 
austerity  of  the  Carthusian  order  and  tbe  special 
features  of  their  existence  caused  their  monas- 
teries to  be  built  in  a  special  manner  and  with  a 
simplicity  which  excludes  all  ideas  of  art.  The 
only  exception  is  in  Italy,  where  the  Chartreuse 
of  Pavia  is  a  marvel  of  architecture  and  decora- 
tion. But  one  may  say,  generally,  that  the  Car- 
thusian monasteries  never  at  any  time  exercised 
any  influence  upon  architecture.  At  the  time  of 
the  Revolution  there  was  an  interruption  in  the 
existence  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse.    The  monks 


270  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

were  dispersed ;  their  library  was  ransacked  for 
the  benefit  of  the  hbrary  of  Grenoble  ;  and  it  was 
not  until  18 16  that  the  monks  were  allowed  to  re- 
turn to  their  monastery,  which  had  become  State 
property.     In  1880,  when   the  Ferry  laws  were 
passed,  and  the  Jesuits  and  other  religious  con- 
gregations expelled  from  France,  the  Carthusians 
were  respected,  doubtless  because  they  are  a  con- 
templative, negative,  and  thoroughly  non-militant 
order  ;  and  so  they  still  remain  the  tenants  of  the 
State,  with  the  right  of  pasturage  and  of  timber- 
cutting  in  the  surrounding  forests,  the  whole  of 
Saint  Bruno's  Desert  having  become  State  prop- 
erty since  1789.    It  is  also  said  that  the  State  did 
not  disturb  the  Carthusians  because  they  pay  an- 
nually into  the  treasury  $500,000  by  way  of  tax 
on  the  alcohol  they  employ  in  manufacturing  their 
liqueur.     The  origin  of  this  liqueur  is  wrapped  in 
mystery;  the  Carthusians  do  not  seem  to  have 
manufactured  it  until  the  present  century,  and 
they  profess  to  have  secrets  for  its  composition. 
At  present  the  liqueur  is  made  by  ordinary  lay 
workmen,  who  are  directed  by  four  lay  brothers 
delegated  as  superintendents,  aiid  charged  with 
the  more  delicate  operations  of  mixing  and  tasting. 
But  in  reality  there  is  no  secret.     Duplais,  in  his 
excellent  treatise  on  the  manufacture  of  liqueurs, 
gives  the  ingredients  and  proportions  required 
for  making  yellow,  green,  and  white  Chartreuse, 
the  flavor  of  which  is  derived  from  melisse,  a  sort 


A   VISIT   TO   THE   GRANDE   CHARTREUSE.      27 1 

of  mint,  mountain  wormwood,  tansy,  angelica  or 
longwort,  balsam-poplar,  mace,  socrotine  aloes, 
cardamom,  tonkin  beans,  cinnamon,  cloves,  hys- 
sop, peppermint,  thyme,  arnica  flowers,  coriander 
seeds,  Alpine  juniper,  nutmeg,  the  whole  mace- 
rated and  distilled  in  various  proportions,  which 
are  recorded  in  specialist  treatises.  But  the 
chief  point  to  be  noticed  about  the  liqueur,  from 
the  manufacture  of  which  these  good  monks  de- 
rive their  revenues,  is  that  it  is  a  most  diabolic 
drink  and  exceedingly  alcoholic.  With  the  aid 
of  a  man  of  science  I  have  been  able  to  analyze 
the  three  kinds,  with  the  following  results  : 

One  litre  of  Green  Chartreuse  contains: 

Alcohol  at  85  degrees 70  centilitres 

Sugar, 125  grammes 

Water 22  centilitres 

One  litre  of  Yellow  Chartreuse  contains: 

Alcohol  at  85  degrees,      ....     38  centilitres 

Sugar, 250  grammes 

Water 46  centilitres 

One  litre  of  White  Chartreuse  contains: 

Alcohol  at  85  degrees,     ....     52  centilitres 

Sugar, 375  grammes 

Water,      .     .  • 23  centilitres 

For  the  benefit  of  the  innocent,  it  may  be  ex- 
plained that  alcohol  at  85  degrees  means  alcohol 
measuring  85  °  on  the  alcoholometer  of  Gay-Lussac, 
which  instrument  is  divided  into  100  parts,  o  in- 
dicating pure  water  at  15°  centigrade,  and  100 
indicating  absolute  alcohol.     Thus  85  indicates 


272  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

alcohol  containing  85  per  cent,  by  Aveight  of  ab- 
solute alcohol  and  15  per  cent,  by  weight  of  pure 
water.  Kirsch  marks  50°  on  this  instrument, 
and  ordinary  brandy  45"^  to  52°.  These  techni- 
cal but  easily  intelligible  figures  will  show  the 
reader  Avhat  a  very  strong  and  unholy  liqueur 
Chartreuse  is.  And  perhaps  this  fact  of  the 
great  quantity  of  alcohol  in  the  Chartreuse 
liqueur  will  explain  the  superiority  of  the  prod- 
ucts of  the  monastic  establishment.  The  more 
alcohol  there  is  in  a  liqueur  the  longer  it  requires 
to  be  kept  before  use.  The  Chartreuse  of  the 
monastery  is  kept  in  bottle  three  years  before  be- 
ing sold,  while  the  imitators,  having  smaller  capi- 
tal than  the  reverend  fathers,  and  needing  to  turn 
their  money  over  rapidly  and  often,  sell  a  Char- 
treuse liqueur  which  is  crude  and  unripe,  though 
otherwise  manufactured  in  the  same  manner  as 
the  genuine  article.  I  have  mentioned  above 
$100,000  as  the  annual  profit  made  by  the  fathers 
out  of  their  liqueur  manufactory,  but  I  will  not 
guarantee  the  exactitude  of  the  figure,  which 
seems  to  be  far  too  small.  Probably  double  that 
sum  would  be  nearer  to  the  truth.  However, 
diabolical  as  the  liqueur  is,  and  decidedly  not  to 
be  drunk  by  the  mugful,  the  Carthusians  make 
good  use  of  the  great  revenues  which  they  derive 
from  its  sale,  and,  although  the  pope  exacts  a 
large  share  of  their  profits,  they  always  have 
abundant  money  left  for  charity. 


A  HO  LID  A  V  ON  FRENCH  RIVERS. 

Paris  in  August  has  its  charms,  and  yet,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  fanatical  boula'ardiers, 
even-body  who  can  hastens  to  abandon  the  city 
and  to  fly  to  the  seaside  or  the  mineral  springs. 
The  example  is  contagious,  and,  although  one 
knows  perfectly  well  that  seaside  iables  d'hote  are 
a  delusion  and  the  boasted  attractions  of  moun- 
tain-climbing often  a  snare,  nevertheless  one  packs 
up  like  the  rest.  It  is  admitted  that  Paris  is  in- 
tolerable in  August.  So,  happening  one  day  to 
meet  an  old  college  friend  on  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens,  I  proposed  on  the  spot,  remembering 
that  he  was  once  the  pride  of  our  college  "  eight," 
that  we  should  try  an  excursion  on  French  rivers. 
The  proposal  was  accepted,  and  we  started  there 
and  then  to  buy  some  maps  and  hire  a  boat. 

The  boat  was  not  easily  found.  The  French 
have  not  yet  become  a  rowing  nation,  in  spite  of 
the  persistency  of  Anglomania  in  France.  The 
few  decent  boats  that  are  to  be  found  on  the 
Seine  and  the  Marne  are  the  property  of  private 
individuals,  mostly  Anglo-Saxons,  who  have  got 
them  over  from  England.  The  craft  which  we 
i8 


2  74  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

finally  had  placed  at  our  disposal  by  the  courtesy 
of  a  friend  was  a  half-outrigged,  pair-oar,  pine 
boat,  roomy  enough  to  enable  us  to  be  at  our 
ease  even  with  our  hair  parted  on  the  side — a 
boat  that  would  stand  a  fair  swell  without  ship- 
ping water,  and  yet  light  enough  for  three  men  to 
carry.  The  boat  was  sent  by  train  up  to  Mon- 
tereau,  the  point  where  the  Yonne  flows  into  the 
Seine,  our  plan  being  to  row  some  distance  up 
the  Yonne  and  then  to  return  down  the  Yonne 
and  the  Seine  to  Rouen. 

At  Montereau,  accordingly,  we  got  into  our 
boat  and  started  gayly  up  stream;  but  at  the 
first  lock  an  inspector  asked  whether  we  had  an 
authorization.  ''  What  authorization  ?"  "  An  au- 
thorization to  circulate."  We  had  no  authoriza- 
tion ;  in  fact,  we  knew  nothing  about  authoriza- 
tions ;  we  were  foreigners,  ignorant  of  the  customs 
of  the  country.  No  matter ;  if  we  had  no  author- 
ization we  could  not  go  up  the  river.  \\'here 
could  we  get  the  authorization  ?  Well,  travelling 
as  we  were,  we  ought  to  have  applied  to  the  ]Min- 
ister  of  Commerce  for  permission  to  circulate  on 
all  the  navigable  water-ways  of  France,  in  which 
case  we  should  have  been  free  to  pass  all  the 
locks  in  the  country.  The  permission  would  cost 
nothing ;  it  was  a  mere  formalit)\  As  it  was,  the 
best  and  quickest  solution  of  the  matter  was  to 
get  a  permission  from  the  engineer  of  the  first 
section  of  the  Yonne,  at  Sens. 


A    HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  275 

This  was  irritating.  Sens  was  thirty  miles  up 
the  river.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  An  idea  struck 
me.  In  the  lock  with  us  was  a  train  of  empty 
barges  drawn  by  a  tow-boat.  The  inspector  could 
prevent  us  circulating  in  the  water,  but  he  could 
not  prevent  us  going  up  to  Sens,  provided  we 
placed  the  bottom  of  one  of  the  barges  between 
our  boat  and  the  water.  An  appeal  to- the  cap- 
tain of  the  tug-boat  was  responded  to  immediate- 
ly. The  boat  was  lifted  on  to  a  barge,  and  we 
jumped  on  to  the  deck  of  the  tug-boat,  and  went 
on.  It  was  a  bad  beginning,  and  we  felt  not  a 
little  irritated  at  this  inopportune  reminder  that 
we  were  in  a  country  full  of  remnants  of  paternal 
government. 

However,  our  voyage  on  the  tug-boat  was  not 
so  disagreeable,  after  all.  But  first  of  all  let  me 
explain  the  nature  of  the  craft — the  more  so  as  I 
think  boats  of  that  description  are  entirely  un- 
known in  America,  The  boat  is  neither  a  steam- 
tug,  nor  a  locomotive,  nor  a  dredger,  but  a  sort 
of  combination  of  all  three.  It  is  an  iron  hulk 
pierced  with  port-holes  and  looking  not  unlike  a 
gun-boat.  In  this  hulk  is  placed  a  clumsj^-look- 
ing  steam-engine,  and  on  the  flush  deck  six  broad- 
grooved  pulleys,  fixed,  in  sets  of  three,  on  two 
parallel  axles.  These  pulleys  are  moved  by  big 
cog-wheels  worked  directly  by  the  engine.  Now, 
alone:  the  bed  of  the  Yonne,  between  IMontereau 
and  La  Roche,  there  lies  an  iron  chain  with  links 


276  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

about  three  and  one  half  inches  long.    This  chain 
is  caught  up  by  a  pulley  at  one  end  of  the  deck  of 
the  tug,  wound  round  each  of  the  six  pulleys  in 
the  middle  of  the  deck,  and  passed  back  into  the 
water  over  a  pulley  at  the  other  end  of  the  deck. 
The  tug  is  round  at  both  ends,  and  moves  up  or 
down  stream,  pulling  on  the  chain  and  dragging 
a  string  of  ten  or  fifteen  huge  barges.     The  pace 
is  not  very  rapid,  but  the  dragging  power  of  the 
tug  is  enormous.     Of  course  the  tug  cannot  quit 
the  chain ;  and  when  two  trains  of  barges  meet, 
one  going  up  stream  and  the  other  down,  they 
stop,  the  tugs  exchange  trains,  and  retrace  their 
course — the  one  that  was  coming  up  going  back 
with  the  down-train,  and  the  one  that  was  coming 
down  going  up   again  with   the   up-train.     The 
chain  from  La  Roche  to   Montereau  is  nearly 
sixty  miles  long.     The  same  system  of  towing  is 
used  on  the   Seine,  only  with  larger  tow-boats, 
between  Montereau  and  Rouen,  there  being  a 
chain    from    Montereau    to    Paris,  and    another 
from  Paris  to  Rouen.     The  latter  chain  has  an 
unbroken  length  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles. 

We  had  a  jolly  time  on  board  this  tug,  or  i-c- 
morqueur.  The  crew  consisted  of  the  engine- 
driver  and  stoker,  who  remained  invisible  except 
when  we  were  in  a  lock,  and  three  men  on  deck 
— the  captain,  Narcisse  by  name,  and  Anatole 
and  Eugbne,  two  handsome  and  muscular  men, 


A    HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  277 

one  about  twenty-two,  the  other  about  thirty, 
who  managed  the  steering.  At  the  first  lock  we 
reached  we  all  jumped  ashore,  and  I "  stood  "  drinks 
in  the  lock-keeper's  house — five  glasses  of  strong 
cognac,  at  two  cents  a  glass.  All  the  lock-keep- 
ers turn  an  honest  penny  by  the  illicit  sale  of 
drink  to  the  mariniers,  or  watermen.  No  sooner 
had  we  got  under  way  again  than  Eugene  brought 
forth  a  wooden  pitcher  of  red  wine  and  poured 
out  glasses  round.  Then  Anatole  insisted  upon 
our  tasting  his  cooking.  It  was  his  turn  that  day 
to  be  cook.  The  ofifer  was  so  kindly  made,  and 
the  hospitality  offered  us  on  board  was  generally 
so  delicate,  so  polite,  so  sympathetic,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  refuse.  And  here  let  me  remark 
the  secret  of  the  great  social  charm  of  the  French 
— their  quick  sympathy  and  great  human  feeling. 
Here  were  these  watermen,  simple  fellows,  intel- 
ligent withal — still,  mere  watermen — bargees,  as 
they  would  be  called  in  England :  they  knew 
nothing  about  us  ;  we  were  perfect  strangers  ;  yet 
here  they  were  conversing  with  us  in  the  most 
agreeable  manner  and  treating  us  with  as  exquis- 
ite attention  as  the  grandest  seigneur  could  dis- 
play towards  his  guests,  and  that,  too,  simply,  nat- 
urally, without  affectation,  and  out  of  pure  good 
human  feeling.  Eugene's  cooking  was  doubtless 
good  enough  in  its  way,  and,  luckily,  we  had 
country  appetites  ;  nevertheless,  a  dish  of  calves' 
lights  stewed  with  red-wine  sauce  proved  rather  a 


278  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

trial.     We  ate  some  out  of  politeness  rather  than 
out  of  relish. 

With  continual  libations  of  pure  red  wine,  in- 
cessant pipes,  interesting  scenery,  equally  inter- 
esting explanations  by  our  three  hosts,  the  hours 
did  not  drag.     This  is  saying  a  good  deal,  when 
it  is  remembered  that  we  got  aboard  the  tug  at 
ten  in  the  morning  and  did  not  arrive  at  Sens 
until  ten  at  night.     But  we  had  so  much  to  talk 
about  that  the  time  passed  swiftly.     Anatole  was 
a  comic  fellow.     It  was  he  who  told  yarns — very 
Rabelaisian  yarns  most  of  them,  and  he  was  pecul- 
iarly severe  on  the  priests   and  on  government 
officials.     He  told  us  about  the  mayor  of  Pont- 
sur-Yonne,  who  had  a  great  idea  of  his  authority. 
When  the  railway  through  the  place  was  newly 
opened,  this  mayor,  wishing  to  get  on  the  train, 
put  on  his  official  tricolor  scarf,  went  and  stood 
on  the  track,  and  as  the  express  rushed  by  he 
screamed  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice  to  the  driver, 
"  Stop,  in  the  name  of  the  law !" 

Captain  Narcisse,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a 
grave  person  and  a  married  man.  His  wife,  he 
told  us,  must  be  pretty  lonely,  for,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  two  days  a  month,  he  had  to  be  on 
board  night  and  day.  Still,  la  bourgeoise,  as  he 
called  her,  had  her  cow  and  her  goat,  and  she 
managed  to  get  on.  He  admitted  that  she  must 
feel  lonely,  at  night.  Captain  Narcisse  and  the 
engine-driver  were  paid  thirty-six  dollars  a  month, 


A    HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  279 

the  two  other  men  thirty  dollars,  and  the  stoker 
twenty  dollars.  They  all  slept  on  the  boat  and 
did  their  own  cooking.  Captain  Narcisse  admit- 
ted that  the  pay  was  small ;  but  he  thought  the 
life  agreeable,  and  said  that  he  and  his  comrades 
were  very  happy. 

Arrived  at  Sens,  we  landed,  and  our  mariniers 
conducted  us  to  an  inn  at  the  end  of  the  bridge 
over  the  river,  drank  three  bottles  of  Burgundy 
to  our  health  and  our  next  merry  meeting,  and  so 
we  parted,  they  returning  to  the  tug,  and  we  sit- 
ting down  to  cold  fowl  and  salad  in  the  dining- 
room  of  the  Tour  d' Argent,  kept  by  M.  Barbara- 
Foucher.  The  next  morning  we  were  up  early, 
called  on  the  engineer  of  the  Yonne,  obtained 
without  any  trouble  an  authorization  to  "  circu- 
late," and,  that  being  settled,  we  determined  to 
spend  the  day  at  Sens,  the  ancient  capital  of  the 
Senonian  Gauls. 

Sens  is  a  picturesque  and  rambling  old  town, 
on  the  right  bank  of  the  Yonne,  almost  surround- 
ed by  undulating  hills  covered  with  vineyards, 
wood,  and  regular  bands  of  varied  culture,  broken 
here  and  there  by  patches  of  dazzling  white,  mark- 
ing the  entrance  of  some  chalk-quarry.  The  view 
of  the  town  from  any  of  the  surrounding  hills  is 
magnificent.  The  white  houses,  with  their  red- 
tiled  roofs,  worn  by  time  and  weather  to  the  soft- 
est tones,  form  an  irregular  oval  intermingled 
with  clumps  of  acacias  and  chestnuts  and  here 


28o  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

and  there  a  row  of  poplars.  In  the  midst  rises 
the  cathedral  of  Saint  Etienne,  one  of  the  oldest 
and  finest  of  medieval  churches,  while  the  Yonne 
winds  along  the  edge  of  the  town,  its  banks  plant- 
ed with  immense  trees,  and  spanned  by  a  gray  old 
bridge  surmounted  by  an  iron  crucifix.  The  pan- 
orama is  extensive ;  and  no  more  charming  back- 
ground could  be  imagined  than  the  cultivated 
hills,  with  their  parallel  strips  of  different  shades 
of  green,  broken  here  and  there  by  a  long  white 
road  running  almost  in  a  straight  line  from  the 
foot  to  the  crest. 

Sens  was  an  important  place  before  the  Roman 
times.  Quantities  of  Gallo- Roman  antiquities 
have  been  discovered  there  which  have  afforded 
an  endless  subject  of  discussion  for  the  local  an- 
tiquaries. One  thing  is  certain,  that  many  of  the 
houses  in  Sens  of  to-day  have  been  built  v.'ith 
stones  that  were  used  by  the  Romans  in  their 
buildings.  Furthermore,  as  early  as  the  fifth 
centuiy  of  the  Christian  era,  Sens  became  again 
famous  for  its  monumental  aspect,  and  in  the 
Middle  Ages  the  town  was  full  of  churches  and 
convents,  and  was  surrounded  by  fortifications, 
towers,  and  ditches,  or  doiives.  The  ancient  walls 
and  gates  of  the  city  have  been  almost  entirely 
demolished  for  the  sake  of  the  building  materials, 
while  most  of  the  convents  and  some  of  the 
churches  were  destroyed  during  the  Revolution, 
The  consequence  is  that  in  modern  Sens  you  can- 


A    HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  28 1 

not  take  ten  steps  in  any  direction  without  re- 
marking some  relic  of  the  past.  Here  is  the  Rue 
Brennus  ;  here  is  the  Cafe  Drapes  and  the  Place 
Drapes,  named  after  an  illustrious  chief  of  the 
Senonian  Gauls ;  here  is  a  Renaissance  arch ; 
here  a  portal ;  here  a  mullioned  window  worked 
into  the  construction  of  a  comparatively  modern 
house ;  here  is  a  butcher's  shop  and  slaughter- 
house established  in  the  cloisters  of  an  old  con- 
vent. Turn  into  the  court-yard  of  this  old  inn, 
and  you  will  find  that  the  stable  has  a  magnificent 
groined  roof,  while  the  coach-house  doors  are 
adorned  with  fine  sixteenth-century  carved  wood. 
All  about  the  town  are  half-timber  houses,  and  in 
many  of  the  streets  may  be  found  fragments  of 
late  Renaissance  wood-carving.  But  the  most 
curious  house  in  the  town  is  one  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  Jean  Cousin,  which  must  date  from  the 
end  of  the  fifteenth  centurv.  The  angle  of  the 
house,  forming  the  street-corner,  is  one  enormous 
piece  of  wood — a  whole  tree,  in  fact — covered 
with  the  most  curious  and  delicate  carving.  It 
represents  all  the  ancestors  of  the  Virgin,  from 
Abraham  downward.  Along  the  other  main 
beams  of  the  house  are  friezes  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite carving  in  low  relief,  foliage  and  flowers 
intermingled  with  figures  and  grotesque  animals. 
The  cathedral  of  Sens  need  not  be  described 
here.  In  its  tresor  are  many  curiosities,  some 
magnificent  tapestry,  and  some  shabby  old  vest- 


282  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

ments  supposed  to  have  been  worn  by  St.  Thomas 
h  Becket  what  time  he  was  taking  refuge  in  the 
neidiborins:  abbey  of  Sainte  Colombe-lez-Sens. 
The  archiepiscopal  palace,  too,  must  be  visited, 
and  the  portal,  with  its  exquisite  tracer}-,  must  be 
admired  long  and  closely.  This  portal  is  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  ver}'  finest  specimens  of  Renais- 
sance architecture  in  existence  and  alone  worth 
a  visit  to  Sens. 

Unlike  most  French  provincial  towns.  Sens  has 
no  bad  smells.  The  limpid  waters  of  the  Vanne 
River  run  perpetually  along  the  gutters  of  all  the 
streets,  and  render  the  town  one  of  the  cleanest 
and  coolest  in  France.  The  picturesque  old 
streets,  with  their  babbling  ntisseaux  and  their 
beautifully  clean  paving-stones,  are  made  still 
more  charming  by  the  aromatic  perfumes  that 
rise  from  the  rich  gardens  between  and  behind 
the  houses.  Around  the  town,  following  the  line 
of  the  old  fortifications,  is  a  shady  mall  planted 
with  immense  elm-trees.  The  streets  wind  and 
zigzag  about  in  the  most  irregular  fashion,  and 
each  shop  has  a  sign  swinging  over  the  door  or 
painted  on  the  shutters.  The  people  are  clean 
and  well-looking,  but  tremendous  gossips  and 
passionate  anglers.  Nevertheless,  Sens  is  a  busy 
and  prosperous  town,  doing  business  in  whiting, 
cutlery,  tanning,  wine,  etc.  But  the  French  very 
wisely  refuse  to  sacrifice  everything  to  business ; 
they  will  take  their  leisure  and  have  their  talk. 


A    HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  283 

Our  intention  in  starting  up  the  Yonne  was  to 
go  as  far  as  Clamecy  through  the  Burgundy  wine 
and  wood  country,  but,  owing  to  the  chbmage  of 
the  navigation  prescribed  by  the  engineers  for  the 
sake  of  repairing  the  locks  and  weirs,  we  were 
obliged  to  abandon  that  idea  and  content  our- 
selves with  rowing  down  from  Sens.  Our  first 
stage  was  to  Montereaii,  some  thirty  miles,  with 
seven  locks  and  a  longish  spell  of  straight  and 
monotonous  canal.  On  the  left  bank  runs  a  line 
of  low  chalk  hills,  and  on  the  right  bank  are  the 
vast  and  fertile  plains  of  Lower  Burgundy,  which 
supply  Paris  with  large  quantities  of  grain.  The 
villages  are  few  and  far  between,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  the  picturesque  Pont -sur- Yonne, 
they  offer  no  particular  interest.  Still,  thanks  to 
splendid  weather,  we  enjoyed  our  row  immensely. 
The  distance  was  accomplished  in  twelve  hours, 
from  8.30  A.M.  to  8.30  P.M.,  some  six  of  which 
were  spent  in  passing  through  the  locks, — a  most 
wearisome  process. 

Montereau,  where  we  stayed  a  night,  stands  at 
the  confluence  of  the  Seine  and  the  Yonne :  its 
full  name  is  Montereau-fault- Yonne — Montereau 
where  the  Yonne  fails  and  is  absorbed  by  the 
Seine.  The  towoi  is  uninteresting ;  the  old  thir- 
teenth-century church  is  ugly  and  in  a  poor  state 
of  repair.  The  only  fine  thing  at  Montereau  is 
the  double  bridge  over  the  Yonne  and  the  Seine, 
— a  splendid  old  structure.     This  bridge  was  the 


284  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

scene  of  the  murder  of  Jean-sans-Peur,  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  in  1419,  in  the  presence  of  the  Dau- 
phin, afterwards  Charles  VII.,  during  a  confer- 
ence between  them,  and  in  spite  of  the  precau- 
tion which  had  been  taken  of  erecting  double 
barricades  to  divide  the  suites  of  the  two  princes. 
Jean-sans-Peur's  sword  is  hung  up  in  the  choir  of 
the  church,  and  on  the  bridge  is  a  black  marble 
tablet  with  this  inscription  : 

"  En  I'an  mil  quatre  cens  dix  et  neuf 
Sur  ce  pont  agence  de  neuf 
Fut  meurtry  Jehan  de  Burgogne." 

Our  next  stage  was  to  Champagne,  through  a 
beautiful  stretch  of  scenery — a  short  pull  of  ten 
miles.  The  weather  was  fine,  but  a  violent  wind 
was  blowing  up  stream  and  mounding  the  water 
up  into  waves  so  heavy  that  we  could  not  make 
much  progress,  and  all  the  time  we  shipped  water 
over  the  bows.  After  three  hours'  work,  we  land- 
ed at  the  village  of  Champagne,  and  put  up  at 
the  only  inn  there,  kept  by  "  Malin,  marchand  de 
vins.  Loge  a  pied  et  a  cheval.  Restaurant. 
Friture."  So  ran  the  sign.  Half  a  dozen  villagers 
gathered  in  wonder  on  the  bank  to  see  us  land. 
I  suppose  such  a  craft  as  ours  had  never  been 
seen  there  before.  We  carried  in  our  oars,  sculls, 
rudder,  and  two  valises,  not  forgetting  the  demi- 
john for  our  wine.  And  then,  having  tied  the 
boat  up,  we  undressed  and  jumped  into  the  river. 
The  curiosity  of  the  villagers  reached  a  feverish 


A   HOLIDAY  ON   FRENCH   RIVERS.  285 

pitch.  There  were  more  than  twenty  of  them  on 
the  bank  now,  watching  us  swimming.  It  is  a 
curious  fact  that  the  people  in  France  who  live 
by  the  rivers  never  bathe,  and  very  few  of  them 
know  how  to  swim.  The  watermen,  too,  rarely 
swim.  Our  bathing,  therefore,  excited  the  great- 
est curiosity  all  down  the  Seine. 

After  the  bath  came  dinner  at  the  inn  and  a 
view  of  the  country  by  the  light  of  a  brilliant  sun- 
set. Champagne  is  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  we 
saw.  At  this  point  the  Seine  runs  between  slop- 
ing hills  that  come  down  almost  to  the  water's 
edge.  At  the  foot  of  the  hills  on  one  bank  is 
Champagne,  a  picturesque  village  of  five  hundred 
inhabitants.  At  the  foot  of  the  hills  on  the  op- 
posite side  is  Thomery,  with  about  twelve  hundred 
inhabitants.  The  whole  district  is  devoted  to 
fruit-culture.  Every  house,  every  wall,  has  fruit- 
trees  or  vines  trained  on  it.  Pears,  peaches,  and 
grapes  are  trained  along  the  public  roads,  while 
on  the  hillsides  rows  upon  rows  of  white  walls, 
with  red-tile  copings,  are  built  so  as  to  catch  and 
husband  every  ray  of  sun.  On  these  walls  and 
between  are  trained  vines  and  fruit-trees.  The 
whole  district  is  one  vast  garden.  On  the  crest 
of  the  hills  you  see  the  immense  trees  of  the  for- 
est of  Fontainebleau,  which  covers  the  vast  table- 
land over  the  heights.  It  is  in  this  country 
exclusively  that  the  famous  table-grapes  called 
"  Chasselas  de  Fontainebleau  "  are  grown.     The 


286  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

value  of  the  grapes  sent  from  Thomery  annually 
to  Paris  amounts  to  upward  of  two  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars. 

The  next  morning,  after  a  swim  and  a  cup  of 
coffee,  we  pulled  back  up  stream  to  a  small  town 
called  Saint  Mammes,  at  the  confluence  of  the 
Seine  and  the  Loing.  Saint  Mammes  is  a  great 
junction  for  canal  and  river  navigation  and  an 
important  barge  -  building  place.  In  itself  the 
town  is  utterly  uninteresting.  The  Loing  is  only 
navigable  for  about  a  mile  and  a  half,  as  far  as 
Moret,  but  just  below  Moret  it  is  joined  by  the 
Canal  du  Loing,  which  completes  the  communi- 
cation between  the  Seine  and  the  Loire,  the 
Rhone,  and  the  canals  of  the  centre  of  France. 
Our  boat  being  light,  we  were  able  to  pull  right 
up  under  the  walls  of  Moret  and  to  land  in  the 
cellars  of  the  Hotel  de  I'Ecu  de  France.  Farther 
progress  up  the  river  is  arrested  by  tan-mills  and 
flour-mills. 

Moret  is  a  delightful  old  place,  and  one  of  the 
very  few  towns  existing  where  the  mediaeval  for- 
tifications still  remain  in  an  intelligible  state  of 
preservation.  The  town  consists  of  one  longish 
street,  with  an  antique  gate  and  tower  at  each 
end,  and  on  each  side  of  this  main  street  a  maze 
of  narrow  lanes  and  passages,  zigzagging  in  and 
out,  with  houses,  stables,  barns,  etc.,  built  at  the 
most  irregular  angles.  The  houses  are  all  white, 
with  red-tile  roofs  and  light-green  shutters.    Right 


A    HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  287 

and  left  of  the  main  street  the  modern  town,  with 
its  two  thousand  inhabitants,  has  outgrown  the 
old  lines  of  walls,  but  at  either  end,  and  particu- 
larly at  the  end  of  the  town  skirted  by  the  Loing 
and  its  confluent  the  Orvanne,  the  old  walls  are 
in  a  fine  state  of  preservation.  Of  the  castle 
there  still  remains  a  huge  donjon^  or  keep,  which 
has  been  carefully  restored  and  converted  into  a 
dwelling  by  some  wealthy  person  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  view  of  the  town  from  the  bridge, 
with  the  church,  the  do/ijon,  the  old  gate,  the  bat- 
tlemented  walls,  and  the  bastions,  with  the  river 
running  at  the  foot,  forms  a  delicious  picture. 

The  church  of  Moret,  very  fine  externally,  was 
consecrated,  it  appears,  in  1166,  by  Thomas  a 
Becket,  and,  like  the  cathedral  of  Sens,  it  preserves 
among  its  relics  some  of  the  vestments  of  the  Eng- 
lish saint.  It  is  a  beautiful  specimen  of  pointed 
Gothic  architecture,  but,  unfortunately,  it  is  almost 
falling  into  ruins.  In  one  of  the  windows  there 
is  some  splendid  stained  glass.  The  organ-loft  is 
a  singularly  delicate  piece  of  Renaissance  wood- 
carving.  The  day  we  were  at  Moret  happened  to 
be  market-day.  The  market  is  held  around  the 
church  and  in  the  street  that  runs  in  front  of  it. 
As  we  stood  within  the  edifice,  admiring  the 
graceful  slenderness  of  the  columns,  the  elegance 
of  the  vaulted  roof,  the  apparent  immensity  of 
the  church  itself,  due  to  the  beauty  of  its  propor- 
tions, the  sparrows  and  swallows  were  twittering 


288  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

in  and  out  through  the  broken  windows,  while 
from  outside  penetrated  the  hum  and  buzz  of  the 
market  and  the  yelping  cries  of  the  peddlers  rec- 
ommending their  gay  ribbons  to  the  country-girls. 
The  stillness  of  the  church  seemed  all  the  greater 
amid  this  distant  and  subdued  murmur.  Then 
from  time  to  time  a  sturdy  tread  would  echo 
along  the  quarried  floor,  as  some  rosy-cheeked 
market-woman,  basket  on  arm,  walked  up  the  aisle 
to  the  chapel  of  the  Sacred  Heart  or  of  St.  Jo- 
seph, to  say  her  prayers,  bowing  devoutly  as  she 
passed  the  mural  tablet  so  prettily  and  touching- 
ly  worded : 

"A  la  memoire  des  enfants  du  canton  de  Moret,  morts 
pour  la  defense  du  pays,  1870-71." 

Then  would  come  in  one  of  the  ladies  of  the 
town  and  walk  up  to  hex  prie-dieii,  in  the  centre 
aisle.  The  whole  social  history  of  Moret  might 
have  been  read  in  these  pric-dieics  by  an  expe- 
rienced eye — some  of  them  covered  Avith  plain 
moleskin,  others  with  velvet,  others  with  bands 
of  wool-work,  others  with  dimity,  others  with  sim- 
ple cane  seats  and  unpadded  chin-rests,  some 
carefully  swathed  in  brown  holland,  others  left 
exposed  to  the  dust,  and  on  each  one  the  name 
of  the  owner — on  this  one  written  in  ink,  on  this 
one  a  card,  on  this  one  a  silver  plate :  "  Mme. 
Fuzet  mere;'  "  Mme.  Vve.  Dubras,"  "  Mr.  Yon," 
'■'  Mme.   Dagron,"   "  Mr.  Ronfanneau,"   "  ]\Ime. 


A   HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH   RIVERS.  289 

Gromer  "  —  all  the  inhabitants,  from  the  mayor 
and  the  notary  down  to  the  pork-butcher. 

The  market  outside  the  church  was  a  scene 
that  v/ould  have  delighted  the  painter  Prout. 
The  stalls  are  few.  The  butchers,  hosiers,  mer- 
cers, and  some  of  the  peddlers  alone  have  primi- 
tive installations  covered  with  scarlet  awnings. 
Most  of  the  market-people  lay  their  v/ares  out  on 
the  ground.  Along  each  side  of  the  street  are 
laid  planks  supported  on  low  trestles  or  on  pails 
turned  bottom  upward,  and  on  these  planks  are 
seated,  in  serried  ranks,  the  country-women — 
one  with  a  basket  of  eggs,  one  with  cheeses,  one 
with  poultry,  one  with  garden  -  produce  or  fruit. 
The  costume  of  the  peasant-woman  here  and  in 
the  north  of  France  generally  is  simple  and  not 
unpicturesque  :  the  head  is  tightly  bound  up  in  a 
multi-colored  plaid  kerchief,  completely  conceal- 
ing the  hair ;  the  bodice  is  tight  -  fitting,  with  a 
fichu  thrown  over  the  shoulders,  crossed  on  the 
breast,  and  attached  at  the  back ;  skirt  plain  and 
unplaited  ;  apron  ;  shoes,  or  sabots.  Some  of  the 
old  women  carry  umbrellas  of  the  quaintest  and 
most  JESthetic  blue  and  green  shades.  The  wom- 
en do  not  solicit  custom,  and  seem  more  intent 
upon  gossiping  quietly  with  their  neighbors  than 
upon  selling  their  butter  and  eggs.  At  noon  the 
market  is  over,  and  you  see  the  women  trooping 
out  through  the  old  gate  and  over  the  bridge, 
most  of  them  on  foot,  some  in  carts  drawn  by 
19 


290  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

mules  or  donkeys,  others  in  primitive  vehicles 
dragged  by  oxen. 

Apart  from  the  church,  the  gates,  the  walls,  and 
the  castle,  there  is  nothing  specially  to  be  visited 
at  Moret — the  "antique  and  royal  town  of  Moret- 
sur-Loing,"  as  the  natives  style  it — but  the  whole 
town  is  charming,  and  the  memories  of  the  place 
go  back  more  than  two  thousand  years.  The 
Templars  lived  there ;  for  centuries  it  was  a  fa- 
vorite residence  of  the  French  kings ;  in  the  four- 
teenth century  the  English  occupied  the  town ; 
the  famous  Sully  administered  the  finances  of 
France  from  his  retreat  at  Moret ;  in  the  convent 
of  Moret  a  legitimate  daughter  of  Louis  XIV. 
lived  and  died — so  goes  the  story ;  this  unfortu- 
nate girl  was  born  with  such  a  dusky  skin  that 
her  parents  were  ashamed  of  her,  and  shut  her 
up  in  this  convent,  where  she  was  known  as  "  la 
Mauresse,"  as  may  be  read  in  the  memoirs  of 
Sully  and  Voltaire.  Finally,  in  '18 15,  Napoleon 
slept  at  Moret  the  night  before  he  arrived  in  Paris 
to  sit  on  a  throne  in  the  Tuileries.  But,  even 
were  there  no  historical  souvenirs,  all  this  coun- 
try from  Sens  to  Fontainebleau  is  charming.  It 
formed  the  old  province  of  the  Gatinais — the  Vas- 
tinium  of  the  Romans.  An  old  writer  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  Dom  Morin,  dwells  upon  the  sin- 
gular healthiness  and  populousness  of  the  country 
and  the  longevity  and  intelligence  of  the  natives, 
and  proceeds  to  summarize  the  qualities  of  these 


A   HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  29 1 

parts  in  words  which  even  now  need  no  modifica- 
tion on  account  of  the  healthiness  of  the  countr)% 
He  says  :  "  Our  very  glorious  kings  have  not  only 
been  advised  to  choose  this  country  for  their  so- 
journ and  for  the  preservation  of  their  health, 
but^  furthermore,  have  decided  almost  from  all 
time  that  their  children  should  be  born  therein, 
the  said  kings  having  esteemed  that  it  was  great- 
ly in  the  interest  of  the  state  to  choose  the  air 
where  should  be  born  those  who  would  have  need 
of  great  prudence  and  prettiness  of  wit  for  the 
guiding  of  so  great  and  flourishing  a  kingdom  as 
that  of  France.  .  .  .  The  good  situation  and  tem- 
perament of  the  Gatinais  produces,  above  all  the 
other  parts  of  France,  judicious  men  and  well 
advised  in  all  their  affairs  and  courageous  de- 
fenders of  their  rights.  They  have  not  bad  ac- 
cents, like  the  Normans  and  the  Burgundians  ; 
they  are  modest  and  courageous,  and,  above  all, 
the  nobles  and  gentlemen  are  courteous,  affable, 
and  generous,  being,  for  the  most  part,  descend- 
ants of  kings  and  great  captains.  As  for  religion, 
they  are  religiously  devoted  to  the  service  of 
God,  and  few  of  them  belong  to  the  pretended 
reformed  religion." 

As  regards  religion,  what  Dom  Morin  said  three 
centuries  aw  is  true  to  a  certain  extent  still.  At 
any  rate,  we  noticed  a  great  difference  between 
the  people  of  the  Upper  Seine  and  the  free-think- 
ing, wily  peasants  of  the  Seine-et-Oise,  the  Eure, 


292  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

and  the  Seine  Infe'rieure.  The  people  of  the  Up- 
per Seine,  too,  are  certainly  more  polished,  and 
their  talk  is  clear  and  good,  whereas  when  you 
get  near  Normandy  you  find  a  terrible  accent 
which  it  requires  practice  to  understand.  As  re- 
gards the  populousness  of  the  country,  it  must 
certainly  have  diminished  immensely  both  on  the 
Yonne'and  on  the  Upper  Seine,  and  the  proof  is 
that  all  along  the  banks  of  the  two  rivers  you 
constantly  come  to  paltry  villages  of  only  a  score 
of  houses,  perhaps,  but  with  a  magnificent  old 
church.  The  fact  is  that  the  population  of  France, 
like  that  of  all  the  Latin  countries,  is  not  grow- 
ing, while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  great  towns, 
particularly  Paris,  are  constantly  draining  the 
provinces. 

After  visiting  Moret,  we  returned  to  Cham- 
pagne, and  slept  there  that  night,  our  hostess 
having  previously  begged  us  to  sign  the  register. 
This  register  was  one  of  the  fine  old  imperial  ar- 
ticles which  the  traveller  now  rarely  meets  with, 
even  in  the  country,  the  police  of  the  republic 
being  far  from  strict  on  the  point  of  the  inscrip- 
tion of  travellers.  By  virtue  of  a  law  of  22  d  July, 
1 79 1,  inn-keepers  are  bound  to  have  this  register 
filled  up  as  soon  as  a  traveller  arrives,  even  if  he 
sleep  only  one  night  in  the  house.  The  register 
contains  so  many  sheets  of  stamped  paper,  ruled 
into  compartments,  in  which  the  traveller  has  to 
write  his  name,  profession,  habitual  domicile,  age, 


A   HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH   RIVERS.  293 

date  of  arrival,  place  he  last  slept  at,  destination, 
date  of  departure,  place  of  birth.  Most  of  the 
visitors  to  Champagne  appeared  to  have  been 
ambulant  singers,  lyric  artistes,  Italian  navvies, 
tinmen,  and  peddlers.  Still,  modest  as  the  inn 
and  its  visitors  were,  we  found  clean  bedrooms, 
clean  linen,  and  abundant  and  well-cooked  food. 

Leaving  Champagne,  we  rowed  down  through 
magnificent  scenery,  skirting  the  forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau,  as  far  as  Melun,  and  then  from  Melun 
past  St.  Assise  and  St.  Fargeau  —  the  scene  of 
Dumas's  "Affaire  Clemenceau" — Seine  Port, the 
forest  of  Rougeau  to  Corbeil,  and  from  Corbeil 
to  Paris.  This  latter  stage,  with  the  exception 
of  beautiful  forest-scenery  between  Melun  and 
Villeneuve-St.  Georges,  was  without  incident  and 
needs  no  special  description. 

Our  journey  through  Paris  was  exceedingly  in- 
teresting, because  it  enabled  us  to  consider  the 
city  in  a  new  light — as  a  port,  almost  as  a  sea- 
port. At  Charenton  the  Seine  is  joined  by  the 
Marne  and  the  canal  of  St.  Maur,  and  the  navi- 
gation begins  to  get  busy,  so  that  we  had  to  be 
careful  about  our  steering.  Between  Charenton 
and  Bercy  Bridge  we  see  massed  together  vast 
timber-rafts  that  float  down  from  Burgundy  and 
the  Yonne,  with  whole  colonies  of  lumbermen  on 
board,  with  their  goods  and  chattels,  wives  and 
children.  Below  the  bridge  we  admired  the 
splendid  new  embankment  of  Bercy,  and  along 


294  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

the  water's  edge,  on  the  barges  and  rafts,  we  saw 
hundreds  of  stevedores,  the  redskins  of  Paris,  the 
debardeuj's,  direct  descendants  of  the  old  badawrs 
of  Lutetia,  bronzed  by  the  blazing  sun.  Down  to 
the  Pont  de  I'Estacade  the  quays  on  each  side  of 
the  river,  La  Rapee  and  Percy,  are  covered  with 
millions  of  barrels  of  wine  and  brandy  in  course 
of  being  unloaded  and  stored  in  the  immense 
e7itrepbts  that  are  kept  cool  by  shady  trees. 
Nearly  all  the  wine  and  brandy  is  brought  to 
Paris  by  water.  Below  the  Pont  de  I'Estacade 
we  pass  the  huge  lock-gates  of  the  Canal  St. 
Martin,  which  passes  under  the  Place  de  la  Bas- 
tille and  connects  the  Seine  with  the  basin  of  La 
Villette,  the  Canal  de  I'Ourcq,  the  Marne,  and 
the  water-ways  of  the  north  of  France  and  of 
Holland.  Past  the  Arsenal,  the  Hotel  Dieu,  the 
Conciergerie,  the  Pont  Neuf,  with  its  statue  of 
Henri  IV.,  we  arrive  in  the  region  of  floating 
swimming-baths  and  wash-houses,  or  lavoirs,  with 
their  ceaseless  noise  of  beaten  linen  and  hum  of 
restless  tongues.  As  for  the  baths,  they  are 
simply  human  frog-ponds.  Passing  along  the 
Louvre,  we  arrive  at  the  Pont  des  Arts,  with  its 
crowd  of  idlers  leaning  over  the  parapet  and 
watching  the  washing  of  innumerable  poodles, 
and  at  the  Port  St.  Nicolas,  where  a  London 
steamer  is  discharging  a  cargo  of  horns,  which 
will  soon  become  unrecognizable  in  the  disguise 
of  ingenious  articles  de  Paris.     Next  we  come  to 


A    HOLIDAY   ON   FRENCH    RIVERS.  295 

the  Quai  d'Orsay,  the  great  firewood  and  sand 
wharf.  Here  is  unloaded  most  of  the  wood  that 
is  burned  by  the  Parisians  during  the  winter 
months,  and  the  sand  and  gravel  used  for  the 
streets  and  pubHc  gardens.  Still  pulling  down, 
we  pass  the  commercial  quays  of  Crenelle  and 
Passy,  with  their  stores  of  coal  and  iron  and 
chemical  products,  and  so  to  Auteuil,  with  its 
gingiiettes,  concerts,  eating-houses,  and  music-halls, 
and,  on  the  opposite  bank,  a  big  ship-building 
yard,  where  the  Seine  passenger-steamers  are 
built.  At  Auteuil  we  left  our  boat  and  returned 
to  Paris  to  meet  a  third  man,  who  was  to  accom- 
pany us  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

Meanwhile,  still  with  the  idea  of  Paris  as  a 
port  in  mind,  we  paid  a  visit  on  foot  to  the  cen- 
tral "docks"  of  Paris.  These  extend  from  the 
Bastille  to  St.  Denis,  along  the  banks  of  the  Canal 
St.  Martin,  the  centre  being  the  basin  of  La  Vil- 
lette.  The  sight  is  really  interesting,  and  one 
which,  I  think,  visitors  to  Paris  rarely  see.  The 
docks  of  La  Villette  are  simply  thronged  with 
steamers  and  barges,  and  on  either  side  rise  tall 
warehouses,  immense  grain-sheds,  steam-cranes, 
piles  of  barrels  and  cases,  millstones,  plaster  of 
Paris,  etc.  These  two  latter  products  find  their 
way  even  to  America.  The  celebrated  French 
economist,  Michel  Chevalier,  when  visiting  Buf- 
falo, noticed  a  boat  laden  with  millstones  like 
those  quarried  in  the  environs  of  Paris.     The 


296  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

captain  told  him  that  the  stones  actually  came 
from  Paris,  and  added  that  on  the  Erie  line,  in 
Indiana,  Illinois,  and  even  Michigan,  French  mill- 
stones from  La  Ferte-sous-Jouarre  were  used.  As 
for  plaster  of  Paris,  the  quarries  of  Belleville  and 
the  Buttes  Chaumont  owe  their  name  of  "Carrieres 
d'Amerique"  to  the  country  where  so  much  of 
their  produce  goes. 

A  glance  at  a  canal  map  of  France  will  show 
the  immense  importance  of  the  port  of  Paris,  and 
how  Paris  is  accessible  by  water  from  all  parts  of 
France  and  Europe.  By  the  Marne  and  the  canal 
of  the  Marne  you  reach  Strasbourg  and  the  Rhine. 
The  Oise  and  the  three  canals  of  St.  Quentin,  the 
Sambre,  and  the  Ardennes  put  Paris  in  communi- 
cation with  the  Scheldt  and  the  Meuse,  by  means 
of  which  the  coal-mines  of  Mons  and  Charleroi 
send  their  products.  In  another  direction,  as  we 
have  seen,  the  Loing  and  the  Yonne  open  up  to 
Paris,  by  means  of  their  canals,  the  basins  of  the 
Loire  and  the  Saone,  and  complete  the  water- 
way between  Paris  and  the  Mediterranean.  The 
Yonne,  which  annually  floats  down  to  Paris  six 
hundred  thousand  cords  of  wood,  not  only  puts 
the  capital  in  communication  with  Lyons,  by  the 
Canal  de  Bourgogne,  but  also  with  Germany  and 
Switzerland,  by  the  Canal  de  I'Est,  which  joins 
the  Rhine  between  Basel  and  Hunningen.  The 
river-trafific  is  simply  enormous.  The  colonial 
produce  landed  at  Havre  finds  its  way  up  the 


A   HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  297 

Seine  to  Rouen,  Paris,  and  Lyons  ;  the  wool  from 
Australia  and  the  ivory  from  Africa  are  landed  at 
La  Villette  before  being  transformed  in  the  work- 
shops of  the  Faubourg  St.  Denis ;  wine  from  Bur- 
gundy, Cette,  and  Bordeaux,  sugar  from  the  north, 
oil  from  the  south,  farm-produce  and  grain  from 
the  west,  iron  from  the  east,  are  all  largely  con- 
veyed by  water  in  craft  of  all  kinds — in  barges, 
drawn  by  horses,  donkeys,  or  mules,  on  the  cen- 
tral canals  and  rivers,  m  portcurs,  or  steam-barges, 
with  paddle-wheels  aft,  or  in  trains  of  ten  or  fif- 
teen barges  drawn  by  steam-tugs  or  by  the  tugs, 
already  described,  which  drag  on  the  chain.  Be- 
tween Havre  and  Lyons  there  are  several  rival 
towing  companies,  but  the  most  important  is  the 
Compagnie  Havre-Paris-Lyon,  whose  fine  steam- 
tugs  and  barges  are  always  to  be  seen  on  the 
route. 

Having  met  our  third  man,  and  bought  a  capi- 
tal map  of  the  Seine  from  Paris  to  the  sea,  we 
embarked  at  Auteuil  for  Rouen.  Having  now  a 
man  to  steer,  we  travelled  more  rapidly  than  we 
had  done  while  we  were  only  two.  Our  first  stage 
was  from  Paris  to  Chatou,  through  Bas  Meudon, 
Sevres,  Boulogne,  St.  Cloud,  Suresnes,  Asnieres, 
St.  Ouen,  St.  Denis,  Epinay,  and  Argenteuil — in 
short,  through  the  environs  of  Paris,  for  here  the 
Seine  twists  and  turns  about  so  tortuously  that 
after  rowing  six  hours  you  arrive  about  three 
miles  by  land  from  your  starting-point.     The  see- 


298  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

nery  down  to  Suresnes  is,  however,  lovely.  From 
Suresnes  to  Argenteuil  it  is  abominable,  and  at 
St.  Denis  the  water  is  as  black  and  filthy  as  that 
of  a  Black-Country  canal.  At  Argenteuil  the 
vines  reappear,  and  the  large  basin  of  Argenteuil 
is  the  headquarters  of  the  yachtsmen  of  the 
Seine.  Chatou,  where  we  spent  the  night,  is  a 
charming  suburban  resort,  full  of  pretty  villas 
and  inhabited  by  wealthy  Parisian  stock-exchange 
people  and  tradesmen.  At  the  Hotel  du  Soleil 
d'Or,  an  old-fashioned,  rambling  inn,  dinner,  beds, 
and  breakfast  for  three  cost  nine  dollars — which 
we  thought  dear,  particularly  after  our  experience 
on  the  upper  Seine,  where  even  in  the  towns  the 
charge  for  the  same  thing  never  exceeded  two 
dollars. 

The  next  morning  we  got  under  way  at  nine, 
dragged  the  boat  over  the  lock  at  Bougival,  and 
rowed,  through  splendid  scenery,  and  with  the 
terrace  and  forest  of  St.  Germain  on  our  left, 
down  to  Maisons-Laffitte,  where  we  breakfasted 
at  the  Restaurant  du  Petit-Havre,  by  the  side  of 
a  fine  old  mill.  The  walls  of  the  inn,  and  of  the 
kind  of  loggia  where  our  table  was  laid,  with 
vines  trailing  over  the  opening,  were  covered 
with  paintings,  as  is  the  case  with  many  inns  in 
the  environs  of  Paris,  where  often  first-class 
artists  have  left  some  valuable  souvenirs.  Our 
breakfast  consisted  mainly  of  fried  gudgeons. 
All  down  the  river  we  ate  excellent  fish — eels. 


A    HOLIDAY    ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  299 

perch,  gudgeon,  brocket,  and  various  small  fish 
that  made  capital  matelottc  and  friture.  The 
whole  length  of  the  river  is  divided  into  cantons, 
and  each  year  the  right  of  fishing  in  each  is  let 
out  by  the  respective  communes  to  the  highest 
bidder.  This  right  of  fishing  means  the  right  of 
using  nets,  the  right  of  line-fishing  with  a  lioat 
being  unrestricted.  The  French  are  passionate 
and  patient  anglers,  and  all  the  way  from  Paris  to 
Rouen  there  is  a  line  of  anglers  on  either  bank, 
posted,  like  sentinels,  at  regular  distances.  An- 
other feature  that  struck  the  crew  was  the  won- 
derful amount  of  washing  done  in  the  Seine. 
Below  Paris  there  are  no  bateaux -lavoirs,  or 
floating  wash-houses,  except  in  a  few  towns  like 
Mantes,  Vernon,  and  Elbeuf ;  but  wherever  there 
is  a  group  of  half  a  dozen  cottages  near  the  river, 
there  you  will  certainly  find  half  a  dozen  women 
kneeling  in  wooden  boxes  or  fenders  on  the  brink, 
v/ith  a  little  stool  or  shelf  in  front  of  them  on 
which  they  soap  and  beat  their  linen  with  a  bat- 
toir  before  soaking  it  in  the  flowing  stream.  And 
all  the  time  the  busy  creatures  gossip  and  gossip  ! 
After  breakfast  and  pipes  at  Maisons,  we  start- 
ed again  at  12.30,  and,  still  skirting  the  beautiful 
forest  of  St.  Germain,  rowed  through  a  long  stretch 
of  delicious  scenery  by  La  Frette,  Herblay,  and 
Conflans  Ste.  Honorine,  where  we  again  met  with 
very  rough  water,  which  broke  unpleasantly  over 
our  bows.     The  whole  country  is  like  a  garden : 


300  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

the  hills  are  covered  with  vines,  and  the  villages 
built  in  terraces  up  the  slopes,  with  generally  a 
pretty  old  church  perched  on  the  top.  At  Con- 
flans  we  landed,  and  accepted  the  hospitality  of 
Dallemagne,  Marchand  de  Vin,  whose  kitchen 
and  cellar  were  excavated  out  of  the  hillside. 
Dallemagne  offered  us  a  round,  flat  loaf,  called  a 
galette,  and  some  sourish  red  wine,  called  gingly 
— the  wine  of  the  country — which  we  found  very 
conducive  to  quenching  thirst.  We  drank  it  in  a 
rustic  room  trained  over  with  vines  and  overlook- 
ing the  Seine.  The  berries  were  already  swell- 
ing, and  hung  down  in  luscious  clusters  over  our 
heads.  From  Conflans  we  rowed  down  to  Poissy, 
bathed,  washed  the  boat,  and  put  up  for  the  night 
at  the  sign  of  the  "  Esturgeon,"  where  we  dined 
admirably  on  a  balcony  overlooking  the  river. 
After  dinner  we  went  on  to  the  bridge — an  im- 
mense old  structure  of  sixteen  stone  arches — and 
contemplated,  by  a  brilliant  moonlight,  a  river- 
and-woodland  scene,  the  broadest  and  finest  we 
had  yet  beheld.  The  day's  stage  was  thirty-two 
kilometres.  Dinner,  beds,  and  coffee  in  the  morn- 
ing, six  dollars. 

The  next  day  we  were  off  at  7.45,  and  floated 
with  the  stream  between  a  series  of  beautiful 
wooded  islands,  whose  banks  were  literally  ablaze 
with  bright-colored  flowers.  The  hills  along  the 
river  and  in  the  distance  presented  an  incredible 
variety  of  tints   of  green  and   a   luxuriance  of 


A   HOLIDAY    ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  301 

growth  quite  remarkable.  Nothing  could  be 
more  lovely  than  the  river-banks,  the  sloping  hills 
now  variegated  with  vines  and  patches  of  miscel- 
laneous spade-culture,  the  white  rock  here  and 
there  laid  bare  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  centuries, 
the  scraggy  poplars  waving  solitarily  on  the  crest. 
We  passed  Triel,  Meulan,  and  Verneuil — where 
"bow,"  strong  in  history,  remarked  that  the  bat- 
tle of  Herrings  was  fought — and  stopped  for  break- 
fast at  Juziers.  Thence  to  Mantes-la-Jolie,  where 
we  landed  to  visit  the  fine  old  church,  and  thence 
through  a  stretch  of  poor  scenery  to  Vetheuil, 
where  we  put  up  for  the  night  at  a  mediocre  inn, 
"Nouveau  Cheval  Blanc,"  up  in  the  village  away 
from  the  river.  However,  we  had  a  good  dinner 
and  were  well  treated.  Our  arrival  in  this  village 
excited  intense  curiosity,  and,  while  we  were  eat- 
ing, a  row  of  natives  drew  up  in  front  of  the  door 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  les  Anglais.  Our  stage  this 
day  was  fifty  kilometres. 

We  left  Vetheuil  at  7.45  a.m.  The  country 
continued  to  be  fertile,  with  hills  on  one  side  of 
the  river  and  plains  on  the  other.  At  La  Roche- 
Guyon  we  admired  the  ruins  of  an  old  feudal  cas- 
tle. Thence  through  charming  scenery  to  Vernon, 
where  we  breakfasted  at  an  inn  on  the  river-side. 
Our  hostess  was  a  fat,  motherly  person  in  a  white 
cap,  named  "  la  mere  "  Roze,  who  served  us  a 
splendid  breakfast,  sat  down  to  table  with  us  to 
watch   us   eat,  called    us    her    little    children — 


302  SUMMER   HOLIDAYS. 

'^  Mivigcz  I'ien,  nics  petiis  enfarits  !  .  .  .  £/i  bien  f 
C'cst-y  bonne,  romddtc,  vies  enfants  V — ^Yas  desir- 
ous of  obtaining  information  about  the  Queen  of 
England  and  tlie  Scotch  national  dress,  had  views 
of  her  own  about  the  Egj-ptian  question,  and  al- 
together was  quite  a  type. 

After  breakfast  we  rowed  and  sculled  to  Petit 
Andelys  through  delicious  woodland  scenery. 
Just  before  you  reach  Petit  Andelys  you  pass 
King  Richard's  famous  Chateau-Gaillard,  a  fine 
old  ruin  standing  imposingly  on  the  hill-top  and 
commanding  an  immense  panorama  of  hill  and 
valley.  At  Petit  Andelys  we  put  up  at  the  Chaine 
d'Or,  a  fine  and  quaint  old  inn,  with  a  charming 
old  hostess  who  fed  and  lodged  us  splendidly. 
Our  stage  this  day  was  forty-six  kilometres. 

The  next  morning  we  were  off  at  7.50,  and 
rowed  for  several  hours  through  perfectly  idyllic 
scenery,  hearing  nothing  but  the  plashing  of  our 
oars,  the  cooing  of  the  ring-doves,  the  whirring 
of  the  wings  of  a  startled  water-hen,  and  the 
v.-hispering  of  the  poplars.  Arrived  at  the  village 
of  Tournedos,  we  landed,  and  breakfasted  at  an 
inn  which  was  at  the  same  time  the  grocery-store, 
tobacco-shop,  and  newspaper-shop  of  the  village. 
Our  hostess  was  an  old  Norman  peasant,  burned 
by  the  sun  to  the  color  of  chocolate.  With  her 
head  bound  up  in  a  kerchief,  she  looked  not  un- 
like an  Egyptian  mummy.  She  gave  us  an  im- 
mense breakfast,  in  the  consumption  of  which  we 


A    HOLIDAY   ON    FRENCH    RIVERS.  303 

spent  nearly  three  hours.  We  did  not  get  on 
board  again  until  three  o'clock.  At  the  lock  of 
Poses  we  were  nearly  crushed  to  jelly  through  a 
barge  swinging  loose  while  the  water  was  sinking. 
Then  we  had  a  hardish  pull  to  Elbeuf,  where  we 
arrived  at  8.15  p.m.,  having  been  greatly  delayed 
and  irritated  by  the  locks.  We  stayed  at  the 
Hotel  de  France,  and  were  well  treated.  The 
town  is  old,  but  far  from  prosperous.  Our  stage 
this  day  was  forty-six  kilometres. 

At  Elbeuf  our  journey  was  practically  at  an 
end,  the  distance  from  there  to  Rouen  being  only 
twenty -tv/o  kilometres,  through  comparatively 
poor  scenery.  Arrived  at  Rouen,  we  put  the 
boat  on  board  a  steamer  and  sent  it  back  to 
Paris,  while  we  put  up  at  a  fine  hotel  on  the 
quay,  where  we  spent  a  few  days  in  high  luxury. 
Of  the  sights  of  Rouen  I  need  say  nothing.  Are 
they  not  described  in  innumerable  guide-books  ? 

The  whole  distance  we  rowed,  from  Sens  to 
Rouen,  was  about  four  hundred  kilometres,  or 
two  hundred  and  fifty  miles.  The  number  of 
locks,  if  I  remember  rightly,  is  twenty-five.  These 
locks  are  the  great  nuisance  of  the  journey. 
They  are  so  immense  that  it  takes  at  least  an 
hour  and  a  half  to  get  through  some  of  them  ; 
and  the  approaches  to  many  are  so  awkward  that, 
unless  one's  boat  be  very  light  indeed,  one  scarce- 
ly has  the  alternative  of  carrying  it  over  the  weir. 
I  may  say  that  pleasure  navigation  is  hardly  rec- 


304  SUMMER    HOLIDAYS. 

ognized  on  the  Seine,  and  pleasure-boats  have  no 
privileges  as  they  do  on  the  Thames.  They  have 
to  take  their  chance ;  and  a  poor  chance  it  is 
when  they  have  to  pass  a  lock  with  ten  or  fifteen 
huge  barges  in  it. 

However,  all  these  little  dangers  and  inconven- 
iences do  not  last  long,  and  are  soon  forgotten. 
The  trip  is  certainly  worth  making,  and  with  a 
light  boat  it  would  be  simply  ideal.  What  more 
can  be  desired  than  exquisite  scenery,  kind  and 
obliging  people,  abundant  food,  clean  linen,  and 
fine  weather  ?  All  this  we  had,  and  more  besides 
— that  charm  of  novelty  and  of  the  unforeseen  pe- 
culiar to  "  foraine  travell." 


FINIS. 


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